


Angel with a Shotgun

by Headfulloffantasies



Series: Angel With a Shotgun [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apocalypse, Baby Dean, Baby Sam, Boy king of hell, Demon Blood, Demons, Heaven, John Winchester is the worst father and has been erased for his crimes, Kid Fic, Righteous Man, angel au, long fic, sam and dean are angels, wing fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2020-07-28 04:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 39
Words: 59,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20058175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Headfulloffantasies/pseuds/Headfulloffantasies
Summary: Sam and Dean are baby fledgling angels who fall into Bobby's backyard. Bobby deals with raising angels while escaping demonic forces.





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> What if Sam and Dean were angels? This idea plagued me for ages before I finally wrote it down.

Bobby Singer was not what you would call a righteous man. He had lived most of his adult life in a drunken haze. He was never an angry drunk. Rather, he was the same person drunk as he was sober; a grumpy belligerent malcontent. Not much had changed from age thirty to forty. His fourth decade passed with incident. The only anniversary he celebrated was his father’s death. He remembered his bastard father by pouring an extra shot of whiskey and searching the house for any traces of his father to toss in the fire. There were fewer and fewer memories in the grate every year.  
On this anniversary Bobby could find only one scrap of an old shirt that had been used as a rag in the basement. As it went up in smoke, Bobby looked into the flames and knew. Next year would be the last. Next year he would scour the house and finally be free.  
The constant background of M*A*S*H reruns were broken up by a screeching. Bobby jumped as the whole farmhouse started shaking. Dishes rattled in the cupboard.  
Earthquake, Bobby thought with panic. The cable box started squealing and the lights flickered. What were you supposed to do in an earthquake? Should he jump in the bathtub? Hide in the basement?  
Before Bobby could make a decision, the lights gave out entirely. Through the window a blinding light streaked across the sky.  
A comet, Bobby’s brain supplied. He stood transfixed in the middle of the living room as the burning light passed overhead and crashed spectacularly on the horizon. The resounding boom shook the house again.  
Then… silence. Darkness. Bobby’s racing heart thundered in his ears.  
Just within sight was a glow of orange where the meteor had landed.  
Bobby’s home was pretty far out of town. It would probably be awhile before the proper authorities arrived. In the meantime, Bobby unstuck his jaw from the floor and grabbed his worn cap. Might as well see if he couldn’t keep the fire from spreading.  
The smoke and ashes floated like fireflies through the silent night. Not even the distant electric lights from Bobby’s neighbors were visible. The comet must have knocked out the power for the whole county. The wreckage of the crater was a long, burning strip of churned black dirt. Bobby wiped sweat from his brow. There was nothing here he could do, as far as he could see. The fire was already burning itself out. He turned to go. Then he heard it. A cry. Bobby froze. He half convinced himself he was hearing things when the sharp wail came again. There was something in the crater. Bobby approached warily, warding off the smoke with a raised hand. An unbiddent thought of radiation from whatever the comet contained rose to his mind. But even if that was true, he was already exposed. Bobby crept closer and peered down into the crater.  
Two babies were cradled against each other in the charred earth.Bobby could only stare as the one lifted a defenseless fist and waved delicate fingers. The other appeared fast asleep, undisturbed by the carnage around it.  
Bobby was immediately reminded of the Superman comics he’d read as a kid. An alien child crash landed on a farm in the middle of nowhere. It was absurd enough to strangle a laugh from his stunned lips. The little waving baby let out another cry. It was a pitiful sound, the kind a child makes when they are alone and frightened. Bobby cautiously slid down into the crater. He stood over the two babies and stared for a full minute. The child wailed at him.  
What was Bobby supposed to do? He didn’t know anything about babies. Even less about alien babies.  
The screaming child suddenly quieted and looked Bobby right in the eye. They held each other’s gazes for a moment that stretched into infinity. Green. The boy’s eyes were a startling green. There was an uncanny intelligence in those eyes. The child knew him, Bobby was certain. And now the baby was waiting to see what Bobby would do next. The baby’s companion gave a little sleepy wiggle and blinked open wide eyes that immediately brimmed with fat tears.  
That was it. Bobby could deal with one crying baby, two was to much. He leaned down and scooped the tiny infants into his burly arms. They were impossibly warm. But they wouldn’t stay that way out in the middle of the night. Climbing out of the crater was difficult with his hands full, but Bobby managed it.  
The green eyed child seemed content to stare at Bobby with his intensely solemn face as Bobby plodded back home.  
His brother, that was how Bobby was going to think of them, had promptly gone back to sleep.  
“What am I going to do with you?” Bobby asked the infant softly.  
The answering growl did not come from the child.  
Between the porch and Bobby stood the biggest wolf Bobby had ever seen in his life. It’s black hackles were raised and saliva dribbled out between its massive fangs.  
Bobby was frozen in fear. He couldn’t run. That thing would be on him in seconds. He couldn’t fight. Not with two babies in his arms.  
“Hey!” A gravelly voice shouted to Bobby’s left. A figure in a trenchcoat faced down the wolf. The beast turned its snout towards the newcomer and snarled. The sound turned Bobby’s knees to jelly.  
“Get inside,” the man commanded. It took Bobby a second to realise he was talking to Bobby. Then the man was running, away from the house with his coat flapping behind him. The wolf howled and bounded after him.  
Bobby unstuck his shaking legs and ran. He thundered up the porch steps and slammed the door behind him. Leaning back against the wood, Bobby panted hard. His heart couldn’t take any more excitement. But as he gulped lungfuls of air, something steeled in his belly. He couldn’t leave that poor sucker to get eaten by a mutant wolf. Bobby carried the boys into the living room and carefully set the two children down on the carpet. They’d be safe inside the house. Then he grabbed his shotgun from over the backdoor.  
The night was eerily quiet. There was nothing stirring as Bobby crept past the carcasses of abandoned Fords. The old cars stacked in Bobby’s junkyard twisted in towers of crushed metal. Every shadow was a threat. Every crunch of his feet over gravel startled him. Bobby’s heart hammered against his collarbone. Where could that monster wolf have gone? There was no howling, or growls. There were no screams either, thankfully. Bobby tiptoed around his property for what felt like hours. He didn’t find anything. Not a single paw print or drop of blood. No fur, or scraps of trenchcoat. But the man couldn’t have outrun the wolf. That was impossible. They had to be here somewhere. Bobby didn’t realise how long he actually been searching until the sky was streaked with pink.  
Bobby gave up. He went back to the house, shotgun still at the ready. He had a notion about calling animal services to come find the darn wolf.  
Bobby had almost forgotten about the boys in his house until their screams reached his ears. He raced up the steps, images of them being chased around his living room by the crazy wolf hovering in his mind. Bobby threw the door open. The babies were both sitting up and screeching at the top of their lungs. They were alone.  
Bobby sagged with relief, “You boys hungry?”  
Bobby set down his shotgun and went over to the closest child. He scooped him up. This was the one who had slept most of the night. He had a shock of brown hair growing almost straight out from his forehead. The child whimpered and kept crying.  
“I don’t think I have anything you can eat,” Bobby mumbled. He made his way over to the kitchen, keeping one eye on the other boy shrieking on the carpet. One handedly, Bobby opened the fridge. Bottles of opened liquor stared back. A head of lettuce purchased optimistically. Hot dogs, mustard, and refried beans.  
“Guess we’ll have to go shopping.” Bobby mused. He thought about strapping two babies into the back of his beat up car. “Plan B, then.”  
Bobby settled the boys in his lap while he dialled the phone. They had stopped crying, finally, but they still made whining, unhappy noises every so often.  
Ellen answered on the fourth ring. “I’m not speaking to you, Bobby Singer.”  
She hung up before he could get a single syllable out. Bobby called back.  
“If you call me again I’ll drive over there and chop off your bits,” Ellen threatened when she picked up.  
“Ellen, wait,” Bobby practically shouted. “I need your help-”  
“My help?” Ellen scoffed. “I should have known you’d call wanting something. You’re a bastard, Bobby Singer.”  
“You’re right,” Bobby agreed quickly. That shut Ellen up. Bobby used her silence to his advantage. “I’m in a jam, Ellen. I’ve got two babies and I don’t know how to feed them. I don’t even have a jug of milk in my fridge.”  
A long sigh scratched over the line. “I don’t even know where to start with that one,” Ellen admitted. “Do I ask why a person in their right mind would leave kids with you? Or do I start with your eating habits?”  
“How ‘bout you start by bringing over some baby food and you can lecture me in person,” Bobby offered.  
“... I’ll be right there. Don’t kill those children before I get there.”  
“Yes, ma’am.”  
Ellen opened the door with three shopping bags weighing her down. Bobby met her with both screaming boys in his arms.  
“I’d offer to help, but…” Bobby jostled the babies.  
“For goodness sake, put them down before you drop them.”  
Ellen had both boys diapered, fed, and swaddled in blankets before Bobby could blink. Somehow Bobby ended up side by side on the couch with Ellen, the green eyed baby in his arms.  
“Where did they come from?” Ellen asked quietly. The child in her arms was dropping off to sleep again.  
“You saw that meteor last night?” Bobby asked. Ellen nodded.  
Bobby shrugged.  
Ellen stared Bobby down with bug eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me? How drunk were you?”  
“Hey!” Bobby protested. He told her the whole story, including the scary wolf thing and the man in the trenchcoat.  
“Maybe the kids are his,” Ellen offered.  
“Didn’t you hear me?” Bobby asked incredulously. “They fell out the damn sky.”  
“I don’t believe in little green men, Bobby,” Ellen said icily. “And if you want to keep these boys, you’d better stop thinking like that.”  
“I don’t want to keep them. I want to get rid of them as fast as possible,” Bobby groused.  
Ellen sighed, rocking the child in her arms absently. “You can call child services if that’s how you feel.”  
Bobby frowned. Ellen was clearly trying to make a point, but it was over his head. If she would only speak her mind. But no, Ellen was a puzzle box. And Bobby didn’t have the patience for puzzles.  
Ellen handed the kid to Bobby. “I have to go,” she explained. “Jo’s not much older than these two, y’know.”  
Bobby walked her to the door.  
Ellen hesitated with one hand on the doorknob. “Call me if you need anything else.”

Bobby spent much of the evening trying to ignore the babies. They seemed content cooing to each other as long as they were fed and changed regularly. At about eight o’clock the boys started yawning. Bobby tried to keep watching TV, but they were yawning so wide he could see their little pink gums. Bobby levered himself off the couch and then a thought hit him. How was he supposed to put the boys to bed? He didn’t have a crib. They couldn’t just lie on the floor, they’d crawl away. He considered calling Ellen. No. He had to figure at least one thing out for himself in this whole baby debacle. Bobby stared down at the boys. He left out a soft curse. “You’re going to be the death of me.”  
Bobby dressed in a sleep shirt and pj pants for the first time in months. He usually fell asleep fully dressed in his chair. Sometimes he managed to stumble up the stairs and collapse on top of his quilt. It had been a long time since he slept properly in his bed. Well, he wasn’t sure he would actually sleep tonight either. Bobby carefully arranged the blankets around the two boys to box them in on one side. He lay down on the other, effectively creating a barrier to keep them from rolling off the bed.  
Bobby propped himself up on one elbow and watched the babies. They snuggled into each other, almost holding hands in their sleep. They were clearly brothers, sharing the same facial structure and nose. But there were so many other minute details that separated them. The green eyed one wasn’t as bald as Bobby first thought. He had feathery wisps of blonde hair clinging to his skull. His cheeks were already dotted with freckles. And he screamed a lot more than his brother. But the other could keep eating until Ellen had run out of milk. Brown eyes flickered open for a split second before he settled again. Their tiny chests expanded and sank in tune with each other. They were so perfectly sculpted, from their tiny toes to their small ears. They were so fragile. Something in Bobby’s chest tightened. He realised with sinking dread that he wanted to protect these boys. He felt a fondness for the little tuft of hair on the one, and the green eyes of the other. He didn’t want to give up these perfect boys.  
Any notion of handing them off the child services died. He couldn’t abandon them now. Bobby scrubbed a hand over his weary eyes. He never intended to be a father. Not even when his wife begged him. It seemed like the universe had different plans. 

Ellen came over again in the morning, “To make sure you didn’t kill them in the night.”  
Bobby told her he was thinking about keeping them. Ellen’s eyes lit up. “Good,” she said shortly. She plopped herself on the couch and pulled a couple of bottles out of her bag.  
“What did you call them?” Ellen asked, cooing over the green eyed one.  
“I haven’t yet.”  
Ellen straightened and levelled one of her acerbic glares at him. “Bobby Singer, you have had these boys for over forty-eight hours and you haven’t named them yet?”  
Bobby ran a hand sheepishly through his hair. “Didn’t seem that important,” he mumbled gruffly.  
Ellen propped the blonde one up so they were eye to eye.  
“How about Joey?” she asked, wrinkling her nose to the baby’s delight.  
Bobby scoffed. ‘They need better names than that.”  
“You are not naming either of these boys Zepplin, Bobby Singer,” Ellen warned darkly.  
“Of course not,” Bobby said, even though that’s exactly what he had been thinking. “What about Dean?”  
“Dean is good,” Ellen nodded. “And the other?”  
“I was thinking Samuel,” Bobby answered. Samuel was a good strong name. Samuel Colt had been a legend.  
“Samuel Singer,” Ellen mused fondly.  
“No,” Bobby said sharply. His gut boiled at the thought of giving these boys his father’s name. They didn’t deserve that, and he wouldn’t give his daddy’s ghost the satisfaction.  
“Winchester,” Bobby said firmly. “Sam and Dean Winchester.”


	2. School Troubles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby gets called into the principal's office because of his boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, this chapter is a bit of a filler. Hope y'all enjoy it anyways

Bobby thought when he had dropped out of eleventh grade that he’d never have to be called into the principal’s office ever again. Here he was, grown and grizzled, waiting in a reception office that smelled like crayons and pencil lead, waiting for Principal Scofield to explain why he’d received a phone call about his boys. A million scenarios ran through Bobby’s head. Someone might be picking on Sam. Maybe Dean got into a fight. First grade was rough on everyone. He’d thought his boys were doing ok, though.  
The office door opened. A young lady in a navy pencil skirt smiled over half moon spectacles. “Good morning, Mr. Singer. Please come in.”  
Bobby lurched into the office and settled as best he could in the orange plastic chair across from Principal Scofield’s desk. A crystal apple sat on the edge of her desk with the engraving “Teaching is Divine”.   
“I want to split up your sons, Mr. Singer,” Principal Scofield said. She looked at Bobby from across her desk, her hands folded in front of her.  
Bobby leaned back in the uncomfortable plastic chair. The woman was nice enough. She smiled, her eyes crinkling behind half moon glasses. It was Bobby’s paranoia that told him not to trust anyone; but he really did want to trust that Principal Scofield had Sam and Dean’s best interests at heart. Someone other than Bobby and Ellen had to.  
“Why do you want to break ‘em up?” Bobby asked. It came out gruffer than he’d meant.  
Principal Scofield didn’t frown, but her thin lips twitched. “Sam is an exceptional student, Mr. Singer. He already reads way beyond his level. But Dean is a distraction.”  
“You mean to say Sam’s education is more important than Dean’s?” Bobby cut in.  
Principal Scofield unfolded her hands to press them emphatically against the desktop. “That was not at all my intention. What I’m trying to say is that they are both detrimental to each other’s success. They spend all day with their heads together, ignoring their work and the other kids in their class.”  
Bobby harrumphed. “They’re brothers.”  
“Yes,” Principal Scofield nodded. “And it’s encouraging to see siblings that adore each other so much. But they’ve become dependant on each other. It’s my opinion that if they aren’t split apart they’ll never learn how to properly make friends.”  
Bobby conceded that point. It’s not like the boys got out much. They’d never had a playdate with anyone other than Jo.  
Bobby nodded, “Just so long as you think it will be best for both of them. I don’t want to do this if Sam is the only one who’ll excel.”  
Principal Scofield smiled her reassuring smile over her glasses. “Dean is a very special boy too, Mr. Singer. He’s very bright. I’m positive that once he’s spending less time making sure Sam understands a concept and works on his own comprehension he’ll be exceptional.”  
The bell rang as Bobby stood and shook Principal Scofield’s hand. He left her office and wandered down the hall to the grade one class. The little tykes were all filing out to meet their parents, backpacks swinging and shrill voices laughing.  
Sam and Dean came out last, heads bent together, lost in their own world. Bobby’s heart twinged to think of separating them. They had something incredibly special in their bond.   
“Bobby,” Sam said with surprise as he looked up. “Aren’t we supposed to meet you by the car?”  
“I just got out of a meeting with your principal. How was school?”  
Dean grinned up at him, slinging his backpack back and forth. “Sam got a hundred on his math quiz today.”  
Bobby ruffled Sam’s hair. “Good job, kid. What did you get, Dean?”  
Dean shrugged and looked away.  
Sam stage whispered, “He didn’t finish in time. He left half of the answers blank.”  
Bobby frowned. “Your teacher didn’t let you finish?”  
Dean shook his head. “I know it, I just didn’t want to write it down. Sam was already finished. He was going to the reading corner.”  
“I would have waited for you,” Sam argued.  
Dean shrugged again.  
Bobby squatted down in front of his boys. “Listen, there’s going to be a bit of a change happening at school, ok? Sam’s going to move to the other grade one class.”  
“What?” Dean squawked. “Why?”  
“Because you don’t do your work,” Sam said viciously. Bobby sometimes forgot how sharp the kid was. Sam picked up on all the cues people put out, but he hardly ever voiced them.   
“It’s going to be better,” Bobby soothed. “You’ll both be able to focus and finish your work, and you can play together at recess.”  
“No,” Dean shook his head, a worried furrow between his eyebrows. “Sam can’t go. How can I look after him if he’s not here?”  
Bobby chuckled. “I’m sure he’ll be safe across the hall from you, slugger.”  
“Are we going to be together in Mrs. Lyle’s class next year?” Sam suddenly piped up.  
Bobby shook his head. “If this works out, you’ll probably be in separate classes as long as they can keep you apart.”  
Dean’s bit his lip. Bobby opened his arms. “Come here.”  
Dean surged into the hug fiercely. Bobby patted his back.   
“Sam’s not going to leave you. And neither am I,” Bobby promised.


	3. Miracles?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys start showing signs that maybe they're not as human as Bobby thought...

Jo and Ellen were a godsend for Bobby. Jo kept the boys occupied when she came over, and Ellen helped Bobby keep the never-ending mountain of parental responsibilities under control.  
“I ever tell how much respect I have for you?” Bobby asked over the kitchen sink. His arms were soapy up to the elbows as he scrubbed pots and pans. Out the window he could keep an eye on Jo and the boys running around the yard. He’d occasionally holler when they got to close to the junk heap.  
“How’d you mean?” Ellen asked. She was leaning over the stove, stirring the sauce for dinner.  
“I don’t know how you survived raising Jo all on your own. It’s a miracle.”  
“Miracles got nothing to do with it,” Ellen laughed.   
“All the same,” Bobby said. “I’m grateful for your help.”  
Ellen put down her spoon. “Can I ask you something serious?”   
Bobby shrugged, hackles going up.   
“Where do you honestly think those boys came from?”  
Bobby harrumphed, “You know what I think.”  
“You still holding onto that UFO story?” Ellen scoffed.  
“I know what I saw. I showed you the crater,” Bobby grumbled. “Why do you ask if you don’t want to know?”  
Ellen shifted against the counter. “Somebody came by the Roadhouse the other day during my shift. He was asking questions.”  
The hairs on the back of Bobby’s neck stood up, “What kind of questions?”  
Ellen shook her head, “Nothing specific. Just enough to get me suspicious is all. Stuff about a meteor falling out here a few years back.”  
Bobby glanced back out the windows. Dean was swinging from the tree at the edge of the yard. Jo was scrambling up after him while Sam watched and shouted below.  
“You think someone’s looking for my boys?” Bobby’s throat constricted around the idea.   
“Hey,” Ellen said softly. “Nothing is taking those boys away from you, you hear?”  
Bobby glanced at her. “They sure as hell ain’t.”  
The laughter and shouts were suddenly cut short by a bloodcurdling scream. Bobby's blood turned to ice. He shared one terror filled glance with Ellen and ran.   
The screen door banged behind them as they raced outside. The kids were huddled under the tree in the backyard. Sam and Dean stood over Jo. Bobby was three steps away when Sam reached down for Jo's leg. Jo's ankle was twisted at an angle that churned Bobby's stomach. He shouted for Sam not to touch. Dean shifted, blocking Bobby’s view.   
Bobby finally reached them and pushed Dean gently aside. Sam was crouched over Jo, his hands spread in the grass on either side of her foot. Jo was giggling, wiggling her foot back and forth.  
Bobby was frozen to the spot, staring in disbelief.   
Ellen jostled him as she crashed to her knees next to Jo.   
"Baby girl, are you ok?" Ellen cradled Jo's face.   
Jo giggled again. "Sam fixed it." She said simply.   
Bobby looked sharply at Sam. There was sweat dripping down the boy's face. His fingers were digging hard into the grass under his hands.   
"C'mon." Bobby gently took Sam's arm and pulled him to his feet. Sam swayed slightly and Bobby wrapped an arm around his shoulders.   
"How about a snack?" Bobby asked. His hands were shaking.  
Dean walked back towards the house on Bobby's left while Bobby guided Sam on his right. Ellen and Jo trailed behind.  
"What happened?" Bobby asked Dean.  
"We were climbing the tree." Dean said. "Jo fell."  
Bobby glanced back at the tree. Under the shade were two spots of lush grass, greener and thicker than the surrounding grass. They almost looked like hand prints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm giving y'all unrealistic expectations by posting this all at once. Trust me, it will be sporadic once I get caught up


	4. H

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby meets someone who opens his world up to the horrors of hunting monsters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the worst chapter description ever. Have this anyways

Bobby woke in the middle of the night to a scratching sound. For a moment he lay in the quiet, listening for the noise that had woke him. He’d convinced himself he’d dreamed it, when the scratching came again. Bobby tossed off his blankets and tiptoed down the hall.   
Bobby twisted the doorknob of the Sam and Dean’s room. It opened without a creak. He peeked in. The twin beds shoved together held the slumbering lumps of his boys, unconcerned by the noise. Dean was turned towards the soft light of the hallway. His face was soft in sleep. The scratching sound came again. It was coming from downstairs.   
Bobby crept down the staircase. Everything was silent and dark. The kitchen was painted silver in the moonlight. There was the noise again. One, two, three long screeches of nails on a chalkboard. Every scrape sent a shiver down Bobby’s spine. It sounded like claws against the screen door.   
There was a shotgun in the living room hanging over the mantle. Bobby pulled it down with shaking hands. A coyote must have wandered into the yard. Rabid animals were known to look for trouble around here. Bobby stuffed his feet in his boots and carefully cracked open the back door.   
The screen of the outer door was in ribbons. The wire mesh shredded by long slashes wider than any coyote was capable of. Bobby swallowed icy fear.   
He reached over and flicked the porch light on. Nothing moved out in the yard. Bobby hefted the shotgun and opened the ruined door.   
The stink of sulfur curled in Bobby’s nostrils with the first step outside. The line of the shotgun followed the dark patches of the yard. Bobby crept further from the safety of the light, boots crunching over the gravel driveway. Every indistinguishable shadow caused Bobby’s heart to leap. The night was unnaturally silent. There wasn’t even an insect buzzing around the porch light. There was nothing in the yard.  
Bobby lowered the shotgun.   
Something huge and black peeled out of the shadow of the house. It leaped faster than Bobby could track. It slammed into him before he could lift the gun. Bobby yelled as the thing collided with him. They went end over end. Bobby’s back bit the gravel. The huge shape growled. Sour, sulfur foul breath blew hot in Bobby’s face. The shotgun was trapped between Bobby and the creature, pointed uselessly away. Bobby thrashed, scrambling for purchase on the ground. The thing crouched over him. A giant paw landed on Bobby’s chest and shoved all the air from his lungs. Glowing red eyes descended and fangs gleamed. A massive maw opened. Bobby squeezed his eyes shut.  
“Hey!” A voice shouted somewhere to the left. The weight on Bobby lifted.  
Bobby rolled over and watched the thing pounce at a man braced for the impact. The creature leaped. The man swung his fist. A blade gleamed. Then the beast was down, a howl dying on the night air.   
Bobby shoved himself to his feet with a grunt.   
“What is that?” He asked, staring down at the black fur lying still.  
“Black Dog,” The newcomer said. He wiped the jagged blade on the sleeve of a black trench coat.   
A startled laugh huffed out of Bobby’s aching chest. “That ain’t no dog.”  
The man’s eyes flashed under the brim of a wide hat. “Not a dog. A Black Dog.”   
The realisation that an armed stranger was standing on his property struck Bobby suddenly. He retrieved his shotgun as he stared the man down.  
"Howdy, Mr. Singer." The man drawled, as if he hadn't just slaughtered the thing on the ground.  
Bobby hefted his shotgun. "Who're you?"  
The man tipped his hat. "You can call me H."  
"H." Bobby glanced at the house. The boys were bound to be awake. There was no way Sam could have slept through the noise.  
"That ain't much of a name." Bobby groused as he shifted his feet. He edged between H and the porch.   
"What was that thing?" Bobby tipped the barrel of his gun at the mess on the gravel.  
H chuckled. It was a dark and deprecating sound. "Now, Mr. Singer. Don't tell me you haven't seen a monster before."  
Bobby's mind flashed to fangs and growls on the night he’d found his boys.   
"Sure. But I can't say I've ever seen anybody do that to a monster."  
H shrugged. His casual stance at the end of Bobby's shotgun annoyed Bobby more than it should. The gun was supposed to give Bobby an advantage.   
"I'm a hunter Mr. Singer. Killing evil like that is my job." H lifted his hat and scratched at his long stringy hair. "It's also my job, Mr. Singer, to know about strange occurrences and the people who cause them."   
H's voice took on a conspiratorial tone. "You wouldn't happen to know of some strange things happening, Mr. Singer? Healings, miracles, unexplained coincidences?"  
Bobby stiffened. Sam and Dean were just upstairs, and if H was implying what Bobby thought he was, Bobby wasn't sure he could stop H.  
H stepped forward and Bobby eyed down the shotgun.   
"Your boys are attracting a lot of chatter, Mr. Singer." H warned. "They're in danger. This," H gestured to the body at his feet. "This is only the beginning. If I were you, I'd learn how to defend them kids."   
H reached into his long coat. Bobby shifted his finger to the trigger. H gave him a crooked smirk as he withdrew a leather journal and tossed it in the gravel at Bobby’s feet.   
“I’d suggest you start by reading that if you want to keep your boys, Mr. Singer.” H tipped his hat. "Have a good night, Mr. Singer."  
H wandered off into the night. Bobby kept the shotgun at the ready until H’s back had vanished.   
Bobby stooped and scooped up the journal. It was worn, supple tan leather tied with a black cord. Pages stuck out at random and the scrawl Bobby could see was thick and spidery. He flipped open the first page. A five point star inside a circle was etched deep into the paper, traced over and over in obsessive detail. “Journal of a Man of Letters” was scribbled along the top.


	5. Journal of a Man of Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby delves further into the world of monsters

Bobby poured over the journal. During the day it lived in the top drawer of his bedside table where Sam and Dean would never find it. After they were both asleep, Bobby fetched the worn leather book and sat up in bed, tracing over the scribblings of arcane magic and monsters. It whispered hoarsely of things called werewolves, shifters, and ghouls. It cautioned to always carry silver and holy water. Salt for ghosts. Iron for everything else. There was a history of blood dripping out of the pages that Bobby read late into the witching hours.   
“Ellen,” Bobby said into the phone. “When’s your next night off?”  
“Tonight,” Her puzzled voice answered. “Why?”  
“I need a drink,” Bobby said, scrubbing a hand over his short beard.  
Ellen snorted, “You need more than one. Should I bring the whiskey or scotch?”  
“No, I need a night in the bar,” Bobby explained. “I was wondering if you’d babysit for the night.”  
“I’ll make dinner,” He added into the silence on the line.  
“Dinner and dessert.”  
The Roadhouse was the best place to drink your troubles away. The dim lights and hazy smoke didn’t encourage familiarity. The pool table in the corner was perpetually occupied by a drunk’s slumped form preventing a game. Nobody who sat down at the sticky bar was in the mood for conversation. The aged bartender didn’t pry, just lined up shots and kept them coming.   
Bobby sat on a stool with two whiskeys making the letters of the journal swim in front of him.   
"Howdy, Mr. Singer."   
Bobby looked up, the hairs on the back of his neck raising as he recognized the voice.  
"H." Bobby greeted gruffly.  
The rough man smiled like a shark. "You remembered. I'm touched."  
He tossed his hat on the bar and sat without invitation.   
Bobby was rigid as a board beside the mysterious man.   
"What do you want?" Bobby asked warily. His mouth was as dry as the whiskey he downed.  
H shrugged. "Just to give you some friendly advice. You got a rugaru on your tail."  
"Are you making up words?" Bobby snapped.  
"A monster." H shot back with equal venom. "It's a nasty thing too. I figured you’d read about it in that there book.” H nodded to the open journal.  
Bobby snorted, “This book? The one that claims werewolves are real?”  
H shrugged. "Some hunters swear they've killed them."   
"My uncle Al used to swear he could see five miles in a snowstorm, that don't mean nothing." Bobby waved at the bartender for another shot.  
Bobby said to H, “Why’d you give me this book? And why are there monsters after us?”  
“They ain’t after you, Singer. They’re after your boys,” H glanced around the bar and leaned in. His teeth were crooked. “Them boys ain’t natural. And they’re drawing all kinds of the supernatural to them. It’ll only get worse as they get stronger.”  
Bobby tossed back his drink, "So what do you expect me to do about this ruga-whatever? Or is this something that bullets will kill?"  
"Not lead ones." H finished his drink and stood. He tapped the journal. “I'd start reading if I were you."  
H grabbed his hat off the bar and settled it on his greasy head, "Be seeing you Mr. Singer."  
"I hope not." Bobby muttered when H was gone. He side eyed the book dubiously. With a sigh Bobby tipped back his whiskey and opened the book. "Rugarus feed on..."

The damn rugaru was harder to track down than Bobby thought. He sat in his car waiting for Sam and Dean to finish school. While he waited, Bobby flipped through the Journal looking for tips to track the thing down before it found his boys. He could have used H’s help on this one. The hunter gave Bobby the creeps, but he had slaughtered the Black Dog that Bobby with efficiency. He probably knew everything about rugarus. Most importantly, he probably knew how to start a hunt. Bobby had no idea how to track a monster.   
The Journal of a Man of Letters had a disappointingly short entry on rugarus.   
“Rugarus are a breed of monsters who appear human until they mutate at a mature age (usually around age thirty). They become desperately hungry for human flesh. After their first kill a rugaru transforms into its monstrous shape. It acquires fangs, rotten flesh, and milky eyes. The transformation is complete; they cannot be returned back to their human form. The only way to kill a rugaru effectively is to burn it alive.”  
“That’s pleasant,” Bobby muttered. The idea of torching someone didn’t appeal to him one bit. A tiny notation written in a different hand caught Bobby’s eye at the bottom of the page.  
“Samuel Colt made a gun that can kill anything.”  
“Ain’t that dandy for him,” Bobby grumbled. “Don’t suppose there’s anything written in this book about where to find it?” The page didn’t answer.


	6. Rugaru

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It came at night

It came at night.   
Bobby woke to the sound of shattering glass.   
He was up and down the stairs with a shotgun in an instant. He cocked the gun, sweeping the dark living room. The picture window was all over the carpet, rain pelting onto the floor. A flash of lightning illuminated a set of massive wet paw prints. Bobby’s stomach dropped. It had to be the rugaru. Which meant the gun was useless.   
Fire, he needed fire. Bobby crept towards the kitchen. It was eerily silent. Every step sounded like a thunderclap.   
The kitchen was empty. Bobby rummaged in the dark drawers, fingers searching. His hand wrapped around the lighter just as something slammed into his back. Bobby hit the kitchen sink with a thud. He slid down to the floor. The rugaru was on him in an instant. Its hairy face twisted in a snarl as it loomed.   
“Where are they?” It growled. Bobby’s stomach churned as fetid breath washed over his face. His hands scrambled for anything to use as a weapon. The rugaru picked Bobby up and slammed him back down. The kitchen cabinet cracked. Bottles of cleaning fluids and dish soap rolled out. Bobby groaned.   
“Where are the fledglings?” The rugaru asked again.  
Bobby spat a curse in its face. He curled one hand around a can of Pam and the other around the dropped shotgun.   
“Eat lead.” Bobby pulled the trigger. It blasted the rugaru back against the opposite wall. Bobby scrambled to his feet, leveling the gun.  
The thing laughed. It spread its arms wide. “Shoot. You can’t do anything to me.”  
“Oh yeah?” Bobby dropped the gun. He pulled out the lighter and lifted the can. The thing cried out. Bobby flipped the lighter. The stream of spray caught fire, a torch of flames leaping at the rugaru. It howled, its hair singed. It turned tail and fled.  
Bobby chased it out the back door onto the gravel driveway, holding up the flamethrower.   
The thing turned on him, snarling. “I’m only the first. There’ll be more. Worse than me.”  
“Shut up.” Bobby lit the flamethrower. The rugaru went up in flames. A howl raged up into the dripping clouds.   
Bobby let his shoulders slump. The mass of flames crackled awfully as the stench of cooking meat rose on the smoke.  
“Bobby?”  
Bobby whipped around. Dean stood frozen in the doorway, eyes fixed on the dead monster.  
“Why did you-,” Dean swallowed visibly.  
“Dean, I can explain,” Bobby said hurriedly. He took a step towards Dean. Dean shrank back. Bobby froze. Dean’s gaze was glued on the can in Bobby’s hand.  
“Listen, Dean,” Bobby slowly put the Pam down. “That thing wasn’t human, okay? It was a monster called a rugaru. It was going to hurt you and Sam. I had to-,” Bobby’s voice choked in his throat. The fear on Dean’s face crushed his heart. His boy was afraid of him.  
“Are you going to kill us too?” Tears slipped silently down Dean’s cheeks.  
“What?” Bobby was incredulous. “Why would you say something like that?”  
Dean sniffed. “Sam and I aren’t human either. Are you going to shoot us?”  
“No,” Bobby’s stomach rolled at the thought. “No, you’re not monsters. You hear me?”  
Bobby knelt in front of Dean and took his thin shoulders in his hands. “You are not monsters.”


	7. Ms. Lyle

“I got an A+ on my science project,” Sam announced shyly over a plate of chicken and potatoes.   
Dean whooped and slugged his brother in the arm.   
“Good job,” Bobby praised.  
“Yeah,” Sam poked weakly at his chicken. “My project qualified for a Science Fair in the city.”  
“Woah,” Dean said. “That’s so cool.”  
Bobby nodded. “When is this fair?”  
“Next week,” Sam said quietly. Bobby studied his son. Sam was always quiet, but his son was despondent, unsettled.  
“What’s up, kid?” Bobby asked seriously.   
“I don’t want to go,” Sam said so softly that Bobby almost didn’t hear.  
Bobby set down his fork to give his son his full attention. “Why not?”   
Sam wiggled in his chair. “I don’t want to be alone.”  
Bobby smiled softly. “You won’t be alone. No one is asking you go alone. Your teacher will go with you, right? But if you don’t want to go you don’t have to.”  
Sam studied his plate. Dean watched his brother silently, uncharacteristically unopinionated. The boy was so in tune with his sibling, he must know how much Sam was struggling to make a decision.  
“I made a really cool project,” Sam said softly. “And I want to show it off.”  
Bobby smiled, pride swelling in his chest. “Then we’ll make all the arrangements.”  
Next week Ms. Lyle picked Sam up from the house at six. The fair was a two hour drive away. Sam and Ms. Lyle would stay at a hotel for the night. The fair started at eight the next morning.   
Dean excitedly packed Sam’s bags into Ms. Lyle’s trunk. He carefully slid Sam’s wind turbine project into the back seat, with a pillow on either side to cushion it on the long drive.   
Sam stood next to Bobby on the front step. Ms. Lyle shoved her glasses back in place seven times while she jotted down her number, the hotel number, the fair location; everything Bobby would need to know.   
“I promise he’s going to safe. He’s such a special boy,” Ms. Lyle said for the fourth time. Bobby nodded and prodded Sam forward.  
“Thank you for giving him the opportunity,” Bobby said diplomatically. Dean ran back to his brother and squished him in the biggest hug. Sam cracked a smile for the first time all night.   
“You’re going to have so much fun at the nerd convention. Nerd,” Dean said.   
“Thanks Dean,” Sam answered.  
“Be good,” Bobby said as Sam walked solemnly down to Ms. Lyle’s car. She waved cheerily out the window as they drove away. Dean stood and watched the road for five full minutes after the car was out of sight.   
At eight Dean came bouncing downstairs, “Can I call Sam?’  
Bobby glanced at the clock. “Sure. They should be at the hotel by now.”   
Bobby handed the phone and the notepad with Ms. Lyle’s number to Dean. Dean sat on the couch and dialled.   
“No one’s answering,” he said after a minute.   
Bobby frowned. “Maybe they’re still on the road. Traffic might have been bad. Try again.”  
Dean dialled. Again, nothing.   
Bobby took the phone. This time, the phone went straight to voice mail. “This is Randy Weibe. Call me back.” The recorded male voice said. Bobby’s blood turned to ice. He dropped the phone. It clattered on the floor, startling Dean to his feet.  
“What is it?”  
“We have to go,” Bobby ran for the door with Dean hot on his tail. The car wouldn’t start fast enough for Bobby’s racing heart.   
Bobby drove like a demon. The car whined as Bobby floored it. The night whipped past, the shadows of trees flashing by in the darkness. Bobby didn’t know where he was going. Who was to say that Ms. Lyle had even gone this direction? Sam could be anywhere. If he was hurt… Bobby pressed harder on the gas.   
It was a coincidence that Bobby noticed the flash of a taillight on a turnoff. The car fishtailed as Bobby slammed on the brakes. Dean gasped in the backseat, just enough warning for Bobby to remember to be careful.   
Ms. Lyle’s silver car idled on the asphalt in the middle of a crossroads. It was such a normal picture that Bobby felt doubt creep in. Bobby nosed his car up next to the driver’s side. Maybe Ms. Lyle needed help. Maybe her car broke down. Maybe this was all a misunderstanding. The phone number could have been a mistake; maybe she wrote it down wrong.   
Ms. Lyle was suddenly in Bobby’s headlights. Her cardigan was ripped, and her glasses were askew. Behind the frames, her eyes glowed red.   
Bobby was out of the car before he could remember moving.   
“Where’s Sam?” he demanded. He pulled a gun from his pocket and leveled it at Ms. Lyle’s head.  
Ms. Lyle shrieked and raised her hands over her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Singer,” she said quickly. “The car broke down, and I got lost, I didn’t know what to do-,”  
Bobby shot her right in the chest.   
The bullet slammed into Ms. Lyle and knocked her back three paces.   
“Ow,” she snarled. She lifted her head and her eyes were black.   
“This meat suit is delicate, Mr. Singer,” the thing that was Ms. Lyle growled.  
“Where’s my boy?” Bobby demanded again. He cocked the gun. “I’m not asking nicely.”  
“He’s right here,” Ms. Lyle gestured to the car. Her movements were jerky, like the thing inside her wasn’t used to pulling her strings. She smiled, her mouth stretching too wide. “He’s been a real treat to teach, Mr. Singer. Such a special boy.”  
Dean darted out from behind Bobby and raced for Ms. Lyle’s car. He yanked the back door open. Sam was curled up inside, asleep.  
Bobby lifted the gun again. “What did you do to him?”  
“He drank his juice like a good little boy,” The monster that was not Ms. Lyle sneered.   
Bobby snarled, “Exorcizamus te-,”  
The thing leaped at Bobby with a roar.   
The gun went flying as the thing collided with Bobby, dragging them both to the ground. Bobby yelled as the thing started throwing punches. It was supernaturally strong.   
“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, “Dean was standing next to the open car door, with Bobby’s journal open in his hands, “Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica   
Ergo, draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica, adjuramus te ... cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare   
Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos,”   
His pronunciation was clumsy, but the demon screamed and convulsed. A burning pit opened up under Ms. Lyle’s feet. She vanished with a shriek. The only thing left was a burning scorch mark on the pavement and a pair of tortoiseshell glasses.  
Dean dropped the book. It hit the asphalt with finality. Dean turned around and was at his brother’s side faster than Bobby would have thought possible if he wasn’t concussed. Bobby struggled to his feet and went to Dean and Sam. Sam was still sound asleep.   
“Is he okay?” Dean asked desperately.   
Bobby carefully pulled Sam out of the car, cradling the boy in his arms. Sam stirred lightly in his sleep.   
“He’ll be okay,” Bobby promised. “He’s strong. Just like his brother.”

Bobby settled both boys in the back of his car. He needed to go through Ms. Lyle’s car for clues to what she’d done to Sam. Bobby rummaged through Ms. Lyle’s purse. There was an empty bottle of Benadryl. Half of that was enough to put a child under. There was also a vial with a viscous red residue that looked suspiciously like blood. Bobby shuddered and decided to ignore that for the moment.  
Dean cradled Sam’s head in his lap. Bobby bent down.   
Sam blinked dazedly up at him.  
“The juice tasted funny,” Sam said woozily.  
“I’ll bet it did,” Bobby muttered. He crushed his boy to his chest as he glared at the charred gravel. He needed to talk to H, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone has noticed, Yes, I am using "John Winchester's Journal" by Alex Irvine as a reference.


	8. The Fore Inn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to go ahead and raise the rating of this one. From here on out you should expect canon typical violence.

Bobby called H as soon as he got the boys tucked into bed. Sam was still woozy. He kept dropping off in the car, to Dean’s horror. The poor kid was so worried his brother was hurt. Bobby didn’t even bother trying to separate them. He just let Dean crawl into Sam’s bed and flicked the light off.   
Bobby went down into the kitchen and dialled the phone. H answered on the third ring. “Mr. Singer?”   
“I got a dead demon here,” Bobby said in leu of a greeting. “Where can I meet you?”  
H swore. “You killed a demon? You sure? It might be faking-,”  
“I’m sure that a portal to Hell opened up under it,” Bobby snapped. “Tell me where you are or so help me God-,”   
“Alright, alright,” H sighed, the phone speaker crackling. “I’m at a place called the Fore Inn. Couple hours west of you. But Bobby, I don’t know that I can help you with a demon problem. It’s a bit above my pay grade.”  
“You’re the only person I know who knows anything about this whole mess. You’ll do.” Booby hung up.  
He waited until morning to leave. The night was spent sitting in his armchair with the shotgun across his knees. At first light, Bobby called Ellen. He owed her a bottle of Jack for babysitting.   
Bobby got down on one knee by the front door to say goodbye to his boys. Dean stood tall; his little shoulders squared.   
“I’ll be back by tomorrow morning,” Bobby promised. Dean only nodded, the perfect soldier.  
Sam’s lower lip wobbled. It hurt Bobby’s heart to leave so soon after Sam had had a scare.   
“One word,” Bobby said. “And I’ll stay. If you don’t want me to go, I’ll stay.”  
Sam sniffled and shook his head. “You’re going for us. So the thing in Ms. Lyle won’t come back.”  
Bobby wrapped Sam in a hug. “Such a smart boy. I won’t let anything happen to you again, d’ya hear?”  
Sam nodded, his floppy hair rubbing against Bobby’s cheek. Bobby took a step back. A tug on his sleeve redirected his attention. Dean held out Bobby’s shotgun. Normally, Bobby would tell him off for touching the gun. Guns weren’t toys. Instead Bobby took it carefully from Dean and ruffled the boy’s hair. “I’ll be home soon.”  
Now Bobby was walking up to the Fore Inn. It was shaped like a castle, if you were a Frankenstein enthusiast. One half of the building was a round, turret shape. The rest was stucco and green gabled windows. It was, in a word, tired. An Inn that had seen better days, if the peeling yellow wallpaper and musty front desk proved anything.  
Bobby rang the bell. No one came. He peeked behind the desk. The usual CCTV was playing in black and white under the counter, and the row of room keys was full. Not a single key missing.   
The hairs on the back of Bobby’s neck stood up. If H wasn’t staying in a room, why had he asked Bobby to meet here? Bobby glanced at the security video again and his stomach lurched.   
The top corner of the screen showed a hallway with a cleaning cart parked outside a room. The room door was open. A hand curled around the bottom of the doorframe. It didn’t move.  
Bobby smelled a rat. He turned on his heel, ready to run back to the car. He didn’t get more than a few paces over the gravel driveway.  
A man in a trench coat and a wide brimmed hat leaned against his car. H.  
Bobby crunched over the gravel to meet him warily.   
“Howdy, Mr. Singer,” H greeted him cheerily.   
Bobby gripped H by the lapels and slammed him onto the hood of the car. H’s hat flopped into the dirt. “What’s going on?” Bobby snarled.  
H grabbed at Bobby’s wrists. “Mr. Singer, please-,”  
“No.” Bobby lifted him and slammed him back down. H and the car both groaned.   
“You’ve been busy, Mr. Singer,” H huffed. “First a rugaru and now a demon. That’s very impressive.”  
“I aim to please,” Bobby snarked. “How’d you know about the rugaru?”  
“Because I sent it after you.”  
Bobby saw the blow coming just in time. He blocked the knife H aimed at his neck and twisted the blade out of H’s grip.   
Bobby flipped the knife and pressed it against H’s throat. “Why are you doing this?”  
H shrugged, suddenly limp and pliant under Bobby’s hands. “Orders from below, Mr. Singer.”  
“Below? As in-,”  
“As in Hell, Mr. Singer.” His eyes flickered from watery blue to pitch black.   
Bobby jerked back, almost losing his grip. “Demon.”  
A crooked smile warped H’s face. “Finally. I’ve been waiting for you to figure it out.”  
H whistled. A low, bone shaking howl answered. Bobby’s blood ran cold. He’d heard that sound before.  
A huge Black Dog came trotting out from behind the Inn. Its fur was matted in viscous red around its slobbering jaws. Bobby dropped H and backed away, holding the knife out. It seemed like a toothpick compared to the beast’s fangs.  
The monster pranced right up to H, nuzzling its massive head into his hand.   
“How-?”  
“Oh Mr. Singer, you’re asking all the wrong questions.”   
Bobby hardly head him over the pounding of his blood. “And what might the right questions be?”  
H grinned. “I’m afraid I haven’t the time to tell you, Mr. Singer.” He patted the Dog. “Please know that I hold you in the highest regard. Sic ‘em.”  
Bobby ran. The beast was on him in an instant, its foul breath curdling the very air. Claws found Bobby’s ankles and he crashed head first into the gravel. He scrambled to flip over. Massive jaws opened over him. Bobby shouted, stabbing blindly. The knife met flesh. The Dog howled, its weight lifting. Bobby stumbled to his feet. The Dog was weaving drunkenly, tripping over its massive paws. Bobby took one step and the thing growled. It charged.   
The knife met flesh a second time. The beast howled, the sound reverberating in Bobby’s teeth.  
Bobby stood panting, the body of the Dog between him and H. H hadn’t moved, content to watch the Dog rip Bobby to shreds. Bobby advanced. Black smoke dribbled out of H’s mouth.  
Bobby tripped through the opening of an exorcism. The smoke slammed back into H. H coughed, stumbling. Bobby charged him, pinning him back against the car. He held the knife to H’s throat.  
H laughed. “So, you’re a hunter now, eh, Mr. Singer? Are you going to fight evil and slay demons?”  
“If that’s what it takes.”  
H smirked, “And what about those boys of yours? We can smell them, you know.”  
Bobby leaned his weight behind the knife. “Leave them alone.”  
“I get the feeling I won’t have another shot at them. But others will. There’s a plan for them, you know.”  
“What plan? Why do you care?”  
“What did you think? That Hell was going to let two fledglings go?”  
“What’d you call them?” Bobby startled.  
H chuckled. “You really don’t know what they are, do you? You’ve got two of the most powerful creatures in existence living under your roof and you’re too stupid to notice.”  
“Believe me, I’ve noticed.”  
“No,” H wriggled under the blade cutting into his skin. A trickle of blood dripped along the knife’s edge. “You really haven’t. But you will.” He bared his teeth. “If you live that long.”  
Blind rage latched itself to Bobby’s skin. He raised the knife and brought it down square in H’s chest. The wound sparked, light coursing through H’s body, scorching him from the inside.   
Bobby wrenched the knife out in horror. H’s limp body dropped, blood pooling over the gravel.   
Bobby stumbled back. He hit the car and stopped. Great heaving breaths wheezed out of his lungs. He’d killed a demon. Not just exorcised, killed. The poor mook H had been wearing as a meat suit was dead. Bobby glanced away from H’s glassy eyes.   
His gaze fell on the knife. The blade was straight on one side sharpening to a wicked point. The other side was viciously jagged. Runes ran down the middle of the blade, etched into the metal all the way down to where it met the bone handle. A knife that could kill demons and Black Dogs.   
Bobby looked up at the dead Black Dog. It’s rank fur was like an oil slick against the gravel. In the background, the Fore Inn sat as mournful as ever. Bobby jolted with the realization that H had killed the Inn’s staff.   
There were so many bodies. So much evil. Bobby glanced again at H. The fiery glow the knife had burned through him played over and over in Bobby’s mind. Baptism by fire. Cleansing by flames.   
Bobby knew what he had to do.  
When he sped away kicking up gravel, the Fore Inn was ablaze. It was better this way. All traces of the demonic massacre were swallowed by the flames that filled Bobby’s rear view mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me on Tumblr @headfulloffantasies


	9. Library Trip

Fledglings. That’s what H called Bobby’s boys. Bobby couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to know that meant. Right now.   
He packed up his boys into the car. “We’re supposed to be at school.” Sam complained as Bobby buckled him in.  
“Shut up,” Dean hissed.  
“But we’re doing show and tell today. Rachel’s bringing her pet turtle.”  
“We’re going to the library,” Bobby told him. He settled himself in the driver’s seat. “It’ll be educational for all of us.”  
Sam sulked the whole way there, kicking the back of the passenger’s seat. He dragged his heels up the walk passed the sign for Sioux Falls County Library. He mumbled under his breath about turtles right up until they walked through the doors. Then his beautiful nerd brain short circuited at the stacks of books.   
It was a quiet, disused library with a small tattered children’s section. But while it lacked any Clifford the Big Red Dog, it did have a surprisingly large mythology selection.   
Bobby helped Sam find a book on turtles and set them up at a red plastic table in the kid’s section. The librarian gave them a dirty look over her half-moon glasses. Bobby ignored it. She was probably just used to having the place to herself all day.  
Dean wandered, not interested in reading.   
Bobby buried himself in esoteric lore and the musty pages of the arcane. Old books, nearly falling out of their spines, made a small tower on the table. One by one, Bobby began demolishing the tower.  
A pounding headache later, Dean wandered over.   
“Bobby, we gotta go.”  
“Why?” Bobby didn’t mean to snap, but his head was throbbing and the ink was swimming on the page.   
“The man says we gotta go.”  
“What man?” Bobby sat up, scanning the shelves.  
“By the window,” Dean pointed but there was no one there. He frowned. “He was right there. He said we can’t stay.”  
“Is he a librarian?”  
Dean shook his head. “He was wearing a trench coat.”  
Bobby’s blood froze. It couldn’t be H. H was dead. “Sam, we’re going.”  
Sam’s head snapped up from his book. The boys exchanged a long look. Sam nodded and grabbed his backpack.  
Bobby ushered his boys towards the door as he scanned the library. There were too many blind spots behind the shelves. Something could jump out of every corner.   
Bobby stopped suddenly. He still didn’t have the answers he’d come for. The stack of unread books at his table greatly outmatched the stack of read ones. Bobby only deliberated a second before grabbing what he could fit under his arm.  
“Let’s go.”  
“You gotta check those out,” Sam said.  
“I said let’s go,” Bobby pushed him passed the checkout desk.  
The alarm screeched as Bobby walked the books out the door. The librarian yelled. Bobby didn’t stop. Dean looked over his shoulder and waved. Bobby glanced back. There was a figure with his hand raised, standing in the window. Bobby couldn’t make out more than his silhouette from the glare on the glass. A trench coat flared around the man’s knees.   
Bobby was so focused on the man he stepped out into the street without looking.   
“Bobby!”   
A car came screeching around the corner. Bobby didn’t even have time to brace for impact. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed. The sound of crunching metal and squealing brakes thundered in Bobby’s ears. He waited for the pain. But nothing touched him. Bobby opened his eyes cautiously.   
Dean was between him and the car. Dean’s hand was buried halfway into the car’s fender. Smoke from the burning tires swept around them. Dean turned to Bobby. Bobby swore Dean’s eyes flashed silver. Then he swore it couldn’t have been. Only a trick of the light. Dean’s eyes were candy apple green, same as always.  
Dean pulled his hand back. The clear hand print in the fender was the last straw.  
“We’re leaving,” Bobby announced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come check me out on Tumblr @headfulloffantasies


	10. Hit the Road

“We’re moving,” Bobby told Ellen when they had gotten settled on the couch. Her coffee mug slipped and hot liquid sloshed over her hand. She didn’t so much as flinch, her wide-eyed gaze locked on Bobby.  
“This is your wife’s house.”  
“I’m not talking for good,” Bobby said. “I just… We’ve got to go for a bit.”  
“What about school?”  
“I can homeschool,” Bobby said. The kids shrieked in the backyard, running circles around the trees.   
Ellen made a sour lemon face. She set down her mug. “You? A high school dropout is going to school those boys?”  
“There’s more to life than book smarts,” Bobby defended.   
Ellen snorted. “Sure. Like social skills. That they will learn in a real school.”  
Bobby braced his hands on his knees. “I can’t. I can’t let them out of my sight right now, Ellen. Something… someone is after them.”  
Ellen’s face smoothed into the blank mask she wore whenever Bobby talked about the strange things that happened around Sam and Dean.   
“Bobby, the paranoia is cute most of the time, but you can not ruin those boys’ lives.”  
“I’m not-,”  
“No,” Ellen snapped. “You can’t. Sam is the smartest kid I’ve ever met. And Dean isn’t a dummy either. If they don’t get a proper education, they will never forgive you.”  
“I’m not talking about turning them into survivalists, Ellen,” Bobby explained. “There’s programs for homeschooling. Curriculum books and whatnot. Besides,” he added. “I don’t expect this to be forever. Just until I get this sorted.”  
“Do it quick.” Ellen advised.   
***  
Sam was none too pleased to be told they were going on a road trip in the middle of the school year. He was even less pleased when Bobby bought a camping trailer and started packing. Dean, on the other hand, was stoked.   
“Are we going to hunt for food? Will we build snares? Will you teach me how to make fire?” His ten-year-old self was bouncing left right and center with excitement.   
“First we’re going to learn how to shoot,” Bobby announced. Dean nearly had an aneurism in his glee. It was an idea that Bobby had been thinking about for a while now. Obviously, he couldn’t be everywhere all the time with his boys. So, they needed to be able to defend themselves. They were too young, too small to go up against anyone in a real fight. A gun was an advantage.   
They tromped out to the back forty. The October sun painted everything in gold, the trees, the grass waving in the breeze, the broken-down fence. Bobby set a line of rusted soup cans on the crooked crossbeam. He wiped flaking paint off onto his jeans as he marched back to where the boys waited in the tall grass.   
Dean buzzed with excitement. “Are we really going to shoot?”  
Bobby nodded. “First we’re going to learn some gun control. This here,” Bobby held up the pistol. “Is the trigger. Do not, are you listening, do not pull it until you are ready to shoot.”  
Bobby took aim and fired. Three of the six cans dropped in quick succession. Dean whooped.  
“Can I try?”  
Bobby frowned. “This ain’t a game, Dean. We’re learning how to protect each other.”  
Dean nodded sombrely. “Like the monster. You lit it on fire to protect us.”  
“Yeah,” Bobby swallowed hard.   
He relented the pistol to Dean. “Hold it like this. Sight down the barrel. Aim a little above the target. Take a breath before you-,”  
Three shots rang out and three cans toppled.   
Bobby cheered, “Boy, you’re a natural.”  
Dean shot a bit more, hitting more than he missed. Bobby was almost winded from re-setting the cans so often.  
“You’re up, Sam.”   
Sam inched closer, his eyebrows pulled down in a scowl. “I don’t wanna.”  
“Sam-,”  
Dean shoved at Sam’s shoulder. “We gotta protect each other, Sammy. Bobby’s trying to help.”  
They held one of their silent conversations, eyes darting back and forth. Sam finally nodded and stepped up to accept the pistol.   
“Alright, brace yourself. It’s gonna-,” the gun went off. Sam jerked back, landing on the ground.   
Dean was beside him in an instant, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “It’s okay, Sammy. You’ll figure it out.”  
Bobby pulled Sam to his feet. “You want to try again?”  
Sam set his jaw. “Yeah.”  
By the time they ran out of ammo Sam was almost as good a shot as Dean.  
Ellen and Jo came over for their last supper in the house. They all sat down for dessert in the living room, the kids sitting on the floor.  
“I’m gonna miss you,” Jo said to the boys, tears wobbling in her eyes.   
“We’ll come back, someday,” Dean said, all the bravado his ten-year-old self could muster.  
Jo collapsed into sobs. She flung herself at her boys. Sam squirmed against the arm around his neck, but Dean hugged back.  
They piled into the truck and trailer as the sun set behind the house. Bobby glanced into the rear-view mirror and his heart ached. He had carried his wife over the threshold of that farmhouse. He’d build a career of the scrapyard. The peeling paint and sagging porch were more than home. His hateful father’s footsteps were embedded into the floorboards. His mother’s blood and sweat were soaked into the kitchen counter. The crater in the back forty was still scorched, despite the willow tree that had sprung up in the center of the carnage, mere days after Sam and Dean had arrived.  
“We’ll be back,” Bobby said softly.   
They drove until stars wheeled overhead and the boys were both fast asleep in the backseat. Bobby pulled into a Walmart parking lot and carried the boys into the camping trailer. They were getting heavy.   
Sam snuffled awake as Bobby pulled an old quilt over him.   
“Bobby?”  
“Yeah, Sam?”  
“Are there any monsters in the trailer?”  
Bobby’s heart swelled. “No, son.”  
“Are you sure?”  
Bobby untucked the pistol from his waistband. “If there is, you know what to do.”   
Bobby tucked the gun under Sam’s pillow. The boy’s eyes were wide as saucers.   
“Goodnight Sam.”  
“Goodnight Bobby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chat on Tumblr@headfulloffantasies


	11. Growing Pains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is honestly just a filler to age up Sam and Dean. Hopefully it's still entertaining.

After the boys were tucked away in bed, Bobby climbed into the cab of the truck. He took all his books with him and cracked them open. He found fledglings in his stolen books. Unfortunately, he found a few too many fledglings. Fairies, dragons, phoenixes, and gargoyles were all called fledglings. It seemed any young monster with wings fit into that category. And since he hadn’t noticed any feathers or claws, Bobby really was stumped. Bobby closed the book and rubbed at his eyes.  
He hadn’t touched the Journal of a Man of Letters since he’d knifed H. His stomach churned just thinking about it. He reached over into the glove compartment and pulled out the leather book. Whoever had written it was crazier than a bag of cats, that was for sure. The slanting writing ranted about Black Dogs and demons and ghosts. There was no rhyme or reason to how things were catalogued. The man who wrote it was clearly picking up whatever he learned as he went and scribbling it down for later.  
Bobby still didn’t understand why H had given the journal to him. After all, it had taught Bobby everything he would have needed to kill H. Exorcisms, holy water, demon traps, the whole nine yards. So why? Why open Bobby’s eyes to the world of the supernatural at all? Why teach him how to defend his boys? Bobby close the book and sighed. Whatever the reason, he had to admit, knowing that he had the tools to kill these monsters was alluring. Bobby couldn’t say he’d done a lot of good in his life. But ridding the world of monsters? That sounded like something he could do.  
The next morning Bobby drove into town and looked up local legends in the library. He found a haunting that looked like a cake walk. A simple salt and burn, as the Journal called it.  
Two weeks later, in Iowa, Bobby found another rugagru. Then a vampire. Then a string of ghosts in Minnesota. Bobby was getting good. And Sam was interested.  
“Can I help with the next ghost?” He asked. Bobby was cooking beans in the camper trailer while Sam and Dean did their homework at the fold out table.  
“It’s not a game, Sam.” Bobby said.  
“I know,” Sam shrugged. “I can do the research. I can help.”  
Bobby considered. The boys knew what Bobby was doing. And so long as they didn’t get near the monsters, what was the harm in letting them do a little grunt work.  
“Only if your homework is finished.” Bobby agreed.  
It went like that for years. Dean and Sam helped Bobby where they could. Bobby never let them near the things he hunted. But he taught them what to do if they ever ran into anything.  
As they got older, Bobby gradually let the boys start coming with him on hunts. There was one in particular that haunted him. The hunt went bad. The wendigo got away. And Dean had been separated from him and Sam. Fourteen was too young to be up against a cannibalistic monster that could move faster than sight. Bobby tore through the woods, Sam hot on his heels. They didn’t dare speak, or shout for Dean. Fear climbed up and down Bobby’s spine.  
They rounded a crest and there Dean was, jogging a hundred feet in front of them. Relief flooded Bobby’s veins. Something to the right of Dean rustled in the bushes. Bobby’s heart thundered. Dean didn’t see it. He didn’t turn.  
Bobby hurtled down the slope, a shout lodged in his throat.  
Bobby tripped in his haste. The shotgun went tumbling into the dirt. Before Bobby could reach for it, Sam had scooped up the gun. He sighted, took a breath, and shot. Whatever was in the bush went down. Dean ducked at the sound. He looked up, eyes wild, and met Sam’s gaze.  
Sam and Bobby hurried to Dean. Sam crashed into Dean, gripping him tight.  
“I thought we lost you, boy,” Bobby wrapped an arm around Dean.  
Bobby went to check on the wendigo. He pushed back the leaves and almost laughed. A deer. The thing had been a deer. Her doe eyes were glassy. Sam had made a perfect shot. The wendigo was still out there, but Bobby had both his boys back. It was going to be okay.  
The boys grew. Sam especially was weedy, shooting up over Dean. They sold the camper when it got too cramped and started renting motel rooms. The country was infested with monsters, Bobby discovered. And he and his boys were there to hold back the tides of evil.  
They weren’t the only ones hunting monsters. Bobby didn’t stick around long when other hunters rolled into town, though. It was too risky. One of them might know what kind of fledgling Sam and Dean were. And hunters tended to shoot first and ask questions later.  
His boys were honestly weird. Now that they didn’t stick around normal people, Sam and Dean seemed to feel they didn’t have to hide as much. They held silent conversations, flickering gazes full of meaning. They didn’t get sick, ever. They healed way too fast. They barely needed to sleep, sometimes going days during hunts with only cat naps. They were extremely strong for their ages. By the time they were sixteen, both boys were hulking masses of muscle.  
Nothing Bobby researched seemed to match up with whatever his boys were. Bobby was starting to believe they were actually aliens.  
Bobby was sitting in a hotel room, pouring over the obituary for a woman currently haunting her husband. The door opened and Dean sauntered in.  
“Hey Bobby,” Dean dropped his leather jacket over the chair opposite Bobby. “Do you know what tomorrow is?”  
Bobby racked his brains. “Wednesday?”  
Dean laughed. “No. It’s Jo’s birthday. And me and Sam have been talking.”  
Not verbally, if Bobby guessed right.  
“It’s time to go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chat on Tumblr @headfulloffantasies


	12. Night Moves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****Please read!****  
This chapter is very graphic. If you're not comfortable with blood I don't recommend reading it. See the notes at the end of the chapter if you're not sure.

The long driveway up to the house gave Bobby and the boys a good look at what had become of the house in their seven year absence. The paint was flaking off the porch like leaves off an autumn tree. The grimy windows yawned like sleepy eyes, blinking awake for their return. The scrap yard out back was a mess of rusty, twisted remains of dead machines. Weeds infested the lawn, purple thistles waving in the breeze.  
Bobby climbed out of the truck and stuck his hands on his hips. “This place is going to be a lot of work.”  
Sam and Dean extracted their lanky frames from the backseat.  
“It hasn’t changed a bit!” Dean grinned.  
Bobby took offense. “I kept this place in ship shape, you ungrateful princess.”  
Dean cackled and thundered up the front steps.  
Sam came to stand next to Bobby. “We can’t stay long,” he said quietly.  
Bobby turned on him. “Coming back was your idea.”  
“Dean insisted. He misses Jo.”  
Huh. Speaking of…  
A car came slowly up the driveway. Ellen and Jo hopped out, waving.  
“Ellen!” Bobby pulled her into a long hug. “I told you we’d come back.”  
“Bobby. You smell like a cheap hooker.”  
“Thanks, Ellen. That’s awful sweet of you.”  
“Happy Birthday, Jo.” Sam hugged her. Bobby finally got a good look at her. She was tall and pretty as her mother.  
“This can’t be little Joanna Beth!” Bobby squeezed her tight. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, darling.”  
“Hiya, Uncle Bobby,” she smiled.  
Dean came thundering down the porch steps and wrapped Jo in his arms.  
“Happy Birthday, Jo!” Dean swept her up and spun her around in a tight hug.  
Jo’s face was flushed when he let her down. “I missed you, Dean.”  
“Me too, Jo,” Dean grinned and squeezed her again.  
Bobby watched the exchange with growing interest. Sam and Dean had grown into strapping young men. More than one girl had chased after them as they crisscrossed the country. And they did a fair bit of skirt chasing themselves. Bobby wondered if he should warn Jo.  
Together they all trooped into the house. Dean’s dusty boot prints followed a path to the empty fridge and back outside. White sheets hung like ghosts over the furniture.  
Bobby tried the kitchen tap. “Water’s running. The well still full, Ellen?”  
“How should I know?” She shrugged. “I never came back here.” She walked through the kitchen to the living room with her arms wrapped around her middle. “Are you sure you want to stay here? I got a spare room and a couch.”  
“Home is home,” Bobby said. The boys nodded.  
“Alright, well I guess we’d better get to work,” she came back rolling up her sleeves.  
It took until dinner to get the main floor scrubbed and inhabitable. Bobby and Ellen stood shoulder to shoulder at the kitchen counter putting together a quick supper. Bobby sent the boys to see if the lawn mower in the tool shed worked. Jo tagged along.  
“Ellen, I think I should warn you about Dean and Jo,” Bobby started.  
Ellen tipped her head back and laughed. “My girl’s smarter than that, Bobby.”  
“You think? ‘Cause she’s been clinging to him all day.”  
Ellen’s face went dark.  
“I just don’t want either of them getting hurt,” Bobby finished.  
Jo suddenly came streaking into the room, breaking the moment.  
“Something’s wrong with Dean.”  
Bobby knocked over his chair in his haste. Ellen was right on his heels. They dashed out to the driveway, kicking up dust.  
Dean lay on the ground convulsing in the gravel. Sam knelt next to him, his face as pale as a ghost.  
“What happened?” Bobby shouted as he took in Dean’s crumpled form. Dean’s jaw clenched against a pain Bobby couldn’t see. He curled into a tight ball, knees tucked to his chest until another spasm racked his frame.  
“I’m sorry,” Jo cried. “I didn’t mean to.”  
Bobby whirled on her. “What did you do?”  
Tears streaked Jo’s face as she stammered, “I- I kissed him.”  
Bobby melted. “Honey, I don’t think a kiss hurt him.”  
Dean keened, his spine twisting. Bobby redirected his attention. “Sam, we gotta get him inside. If he starts seizing, I don’t want him out here.”  
Sam nodded. Bobby went to lift Dean’s shoulders, but Sam scooped him up as though Dean weighed nothing. He ran into the house, unaffected by the three sets of surprised eyes following him.  
Sam seemed at a loss once he had Dean through the door.  
“Upstairs,” Bobby shoved passed him and took the stairs two at a time to the boys’ shared room. He yanked the white dust cloth off Dean’s bed.  
“Here,” Bobby instructed. Sam laid his brother down. At first, Dean didn’t let Sam straighten. He had a death grip on the collar of Sam’s shirt. Then a wave of pain enveloped him and his whole body writhed. He shouted through it, his eyes clenched shut. Sam looked like he was going to be sick.  
“Sam,” Bobby said gruffly. Sam snapped to attention.  
“I need you to stay here and make sure he doesn’t get worse. Got it?”  
Sam nodded stiffly, tears reddening his eyes.  
Bobby squeezed his shoulder as he passed out of the room.  
Bobby hurried downstairs to get towels out of the linen closet and the first aid kit from under the sink. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs.  
Ellen and Jo were still there, holding each other on the couch.  
Ellen’s lower lip trembled as Dean’s screams carried downstairs. Jo squeezed her eyes shut.  
“Ellen,” Bobby knelt in front of her. “You should go home. I’ll call you if anything changes.”  
“Why aren’t you calling 911?” Ellen asked sharply. Jo flinched.  
Bobby sighed. “You know I can’t.”  
Ellen stood, yanking Jo up with her. A fire blazed in Ellen’s eyes. “If he dies for your stupid conspiracy theory, I will never speak to you again, Robert Singer.”  
The door slammed behind them, the echo reverberating in Bobby’s ribs. Doubt clawed at his guts. Who did he think he was to treat Dean when he didn’t even know what Dean was? What if this was it? What if he couldn’t help Dean? What if his boy…  
Bobby shook himself and shoved the thoughts aside. No time for that now. First the medical kit and the towels.  
A high whine escaped Dean’s lips as Bobby came back into the room. The boy was soaked in sweat and shaking. Sam carded his fingers through Dean’s hair, not even looking up as Bobby approached.  
“Has he said anything? What happened?” Bobby set the medical kit on the floor next to the bed.  
Sam shook his head. “What do we do, Bobby?” Sam’s face was streaked with tears.  
“Now we figure out what’s wrong with him,” Bobby set his jaw.  
“Here,” Bobby passed Sam a bowl of water and a towel. “Keep him cool.”  
Dean jerked away from the cloth, flipping away from Sam and Bobby. They both let out a startled gasp. The back of Dean’s shirt was soaked in red. Bobby moved, tugging Dean’s shirt up. Blood ran in rivulets down Dean’s spine, trailing from his shoulder blades. Bobby snatched the cloth from Sam’s lax fingers and wiped the blood away. Two wounds wept blood, one on each shoulder blade. Bobby squinted, his heart pounding. It almost looked like the skin had burst.  
Bobby grabbed the alcohol from the first aid kit and poured it over the left wound. Dean shouted and bucked. Bobby stared. Under the skin, something moved. Like a muscle jumping. It pressed back against the open flesh, struggling to break through. With shaking fingers Bobby prodded against the skin, trying to get a better view. Something poked out from the skin. It dropped onto the sheets, slimy red. Bobby stared.  
It was a feather.  
Bobby plucked up the feather and swirled it through the water in the bowl. The blood sloughed off and left a soft, tiny pinion in the palm of Bobby’s hand. It was pure white, so snowy it almost seemed to glow.  
Bobby jerked his head up and met Sam’s steady gaze. Sam’s jaw was tight, but there was no surprise in his scared eyes.  
“Did you know?”  
Sam looked away. “No. At least, we weren’t sure.” He looked up at Bobby again. “You always knew we weren’t human. Does this make a difference?”  
The challenge was delivered with venom. Bobby examined his feelings. Staring down at Dean, broken and bloody, he didn’t feel repulsed, or angry. The only fear churning in his gut was for Dean.  
“No. This changes nothing.”  
Dean continued to sprout wings all night long. Sam and Bobby stayed by his side, doing their best to keep him comfortable. Dean whimpered as bone continued to push out of his flesh at an alarming speed. His frame was too small for this, Bobby thought. He was too small, too young, for this pain. Sam kept one hand in his brother’s hair, petting and whispering in Dean’s ear. Bobby wasn’t sure what he was saying, but he was pretty sure Dean wasn’t hearing half of it.  
At first light the last of the wings had finally pushed free. At a wingspan of over ten feet, the long white appendages draped over the edges of the bed, trailing on the floor. The white feathers were crusty with dried blood, but no less impressive. Powerful. That was how Bobby would have described them.  
Dean slept, exhausted and bloody. Sam nodded off in a chair beside him, their fingers laced together. Bobby shoved himself to his feet and went to call Ellen.  
“Well, they aren’t E.T.s.” He said in leu of a greeting.  
“How do you mean?”  
“They’re angels.”  
A long pause. “How do you know?” Ellen asked.  
“The wings Dean is growing are a pretty fair hint.”  
The phone was silent. Bobby waited.  
“If that’s true I think I owe you an apology, Bobby.” Ellen said at last.  
Bobby scrubbed a hand over his beard. “An ‘I told you so’ is the last thing on my mind right now.”  
“How so?”  
“How am I supposed to hide the fact that one of my boys has sprouted wings?”  
“Well, you could cut them off.” Ellen offered.  
Bobby was cold as ice. “That is the worst thing you have ever said to me, Ellen.” He hung up.  
Bobby leaned his head against the wall and sighed. Now what? How was Dean supposed to get by with massive wings on his back? How long until Sam grew wings too? For now, Bobby relished in a moment of silence.  
A scream shattered the silence. Bobby was halfway up the stairs in the space between two heartbeats.  
Bobby careened into the bedroom, Demon Knife at the ready. Sam was on his feet, staring at the opposite wall. Dean was still out cold.  
“What’s going on?” Bobby shouted.  
Sam shook his head, pointing at the wall. “There was someone there.”  
“What?”  
“Someone in a trench coat.”  
Bobby’s hands went slick. H. How had he found them? Bobby hadn’t seen hide or hair of them since the library.  
“Come with me. We’re demon proofing the house. Now.”  
Sam nodded, business as usual. Together they laid Devil’s Traps in every doorway. They salted every door and window. Bobby ripped back the rug in the living room and painted a key of Solomon over the floorboards. Bobby sent Sam out to the truck to get the jugs of holy water.  
Bobby went to check on Dean, armed with a shotgun full of rock salt. He pushed open the door and stopped cold. A figure stood over Dean’s bed, no more than a shadow in the dark room. A long coat hung to his knees.  
Bobby raised his shotgun. “How did you get in here?”  
The figure turned. “Hello, Bobby.”  
It had been years, but Bobby knew that gravelly voice. Every detail of that night was permanently scarred in his brain pan. The shotgun dropped to his side.  
“You’re that fella that faced down the wolf.”  
“It wasn’t a wolf. It was a hellhound.”  
“Beg your pardon?”  
“I believe you call it a Black Dog.” The man moved, and Bobby raised the gun again.  
“You were there the night I found Sam and Dean.” Bobby’s pulse rocketed.  
“Yes.”  
“Why?”  
The man clicked his fingers and the lights switched on.  
He looked like a tax accountant. Dark hair, rumpled suit, tan trench coat. Blue eyes like fire.  
Bobby didn’t lower the gun. “What are you?”  
The man inclined his head. “I am Castiel. An angel of the Lord.”  
Bobby’s mouth went dry. “An angel?” His eyes glanced off the wings covering Dean’s sleeping form. “I don’t see any feathers, pal.”  
The lights flickered. Behind Castiel a huge spectral projection of wings fell across the wall. They were coal black, made of shadow. The darkness faded. The lights fizzled back.  
Bobby swallowed hard. “How come yours are all-,”  
“Most angels keep their wings on a different astral plane while on earth. It makes things less… difficult.”  
Against his better judgement, Bobby believed him. He lowered the gun to his side. Using it would be like blowing bubbles, anyways. The mounting trepidation didn’t dissipate as Castiel’s frown smoothed. “Why are you here?”  
“For Dean.”  
Fear flashed red hot through Bobby. “You can’t have him.”  
Castiel’s eyes flashed silver. “Now that his wings have grown, Dean is considered a fully matured angel. Which means other angels can find him. Like I did. Do you understand how dangerous that is?”  
“No, I think it’s you who doesn’t understand,” Bobby argued. “Dean is my son. I don’t know you from Adam. He’s not going with you.”  
Castiel tipped his head, curiosity written all over his face. “You truly consider Sam and Dean to be your kin?”  
Bobby straightened his spine. “Yes.”  
“Curious.”  
“Bobby?” Sam stood in the doorway; eyes locked on Castiel.  
Bobby glanced at Dean’s sleeping form. “Let’s take this conversation downstairs. I have a feeling it’s about to get heated.”  
“Who are you?” Sam whirled on Castiel as soon as his boots hit the living room carpet. Castiel moved across the room. Bobby watched Sam track Castiel’s even steps cross over the key of Solomon and pass outside the circle with ease. Castiel went to the window, lifting the curtains to watch the sunrise. He didn’t give any indication he intended to answer Sam’s question.  
“He says he’s an angel,” Bobby finally spit out.  
“Bull.”  
“Watch your mouth,” Bobby snapped out of habit. He felt like cursing Castiel too. Who did the angels think they were to show up here after sixteen years to claim something that for all intents and purposes, they abandoned? Heaven could go to Hell, for all Bobby cared.  
“I don’t care what kind of heavenly Host you say you are, you are not taking Dean.”  
“Perhaps Dean should answer for himself,” Castiel tipped his head. Bobby followed his gaze. Dean swayed at the top of the stairs, bleary eyed and confused. He bent under the weight of his new wings sweeping the floor.  
“Bobby?” Dean’s voice was wrecked from screaming. The sound tugged at Bobby’s chest.  
“Here, Dean.” Bobby called back.  
Dean stumbled down the stairs. Sam rushed to his side. Sam looped Dean’s arm over his shoulder. Dean let him, a testament to how beaten he was.  
Dean locked eyes on the stranger in their midst. “Who’re you?”  
“Castiel.”  
Dean’s eyes widened. “I’ve heard your voice. In my head.”  
“What?” Bobby startled.  
Castiel nodded like he’d expected this. “Angels can communicate with each other across vast distances.”  
“It was like tuning into radio.”  
“Dean, your power is growing. You’re going to discover new abilities, and that makes you dangerous.”  
Dean stiffened. “Are you here to take me away?”  
“Yes.”  
“No,” Bobby snapped.  
Castiel turned patient eyes on him. “You misunderstand. I don’t intend to harm him. I’m here to make sure Dean, and Sam, are protected from the forces of Heaven and Hell.”  
“I don’t get it,” Sam spoke up.  
Castiel turned back to the window. “Heaven and Hell are locked in an epic battle. They intend to bring about Armageddon and destroy the world. For that to happen, they need Sam and Dean.”  
“For what?” Bobby’s stomach churned.  
“I don’t know. You have to understand, I’m not a part of Heaven’s army.” Castiel shrugged. “I’ve gone rogue, as it were.”  
He stepped over to Dean, gaze focused as though studying him. “I’m here to offer my help. I can show you how to cloak yourselves from detection. I can teach you to hone the gifts you’re unlocking as you become fully mature angels.”  
“I don’t see why I gotta leave to do that,” Dean said, his jaw tight.  
“You are in danger.” Castiel said carefully. “Everyone you are around is in danger. Angels and demons will converge on you, to claim you as a weapon for their side.”  
Dean’s wings ruffled. “I remember us beating a whole legion of demons on our own. Let ‘em come.”  
Castiel shook his head. “These will not be lowly demons. We are talking Princes of Hell. And Archangels, Heaven’s mightiest warriors. You have never faced anything like this.”  
“I don’t care what kind of firepower they throw at us. I’m not leaving my family.”  
“Dean-,”  
Dean interrupted. “You said you can teach me. So teach me. But I’m not going to live in the desert and be a monk or whatever you have planned. I’m staying here.”  
Castiel stepped closer, leaning into Dean’s personal space. Dean held his ground, staring him down. The two stood locked in a private war of wills.  
Castiel finally sighed. “The stubbornness of humanity has worn off on you, I see.”  
“Thanks,” Dean smirked.  
Bobby exchanged a glance with Sam, “I guess we’re staying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes for this chapter**  
In this chapter Dean grows wings. It's a very bloody, very painful experience. It can probably be tagged as body modification. There is mention of bone visible through flesh and seizures. If you're not comfortable reading it, please skip this chapter.


	13. Learning Curve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on out I plan to shift POV to Dean, with occasional chapters being Bobby focused.

Dean wriggled on the living room floor. His butt was already falling asleep and they’d barely started Castiel’s meditation. He leaned to one side to alleviate the ache in his hip. Unused to the weight of his wings, Dean lost his balance and toppled over.  
“Will you please sit still?” Castiel’s gravel voice grated on Dean’s ears.  
Dean folded himself back cross legged on the rug. “I don’t even know why we’re doing this hippy dippy crap.”  
“The meditation will help you to find the balance between this plane and the astral plane your angelic form is straining to reach.”  
“Whatever, wavy gravy.”  
“Hush.” Castiel closed his eyes and opened his wings. The shadows took Dean’s breath away. The black feathers were almost transparent, so tempting to reach out and find if his fingers would slide through them or not.  
“Close your eyes,” Castiel commanded. “I want you to imagine being hit by a lightning bolt in slow motion. Feel a surge of power hitting your scalp. Feel it racing down your spine, searing into your bones, along your ribs, filling your lungs. It burns, but it doesn’t hurt. Breathe in the fire and the light. Let it fill you up. You are brimming with power.”  
A crash shattered the perfect connection Dean was experiencing. His eyes snapped open. Glass from the lightbulb overhead lay scattered over the carpet.  
Castiel regarded him in the dark. “Very good, Dean.”  
“Very good? I don’t think Bobby will agree that knocking out the lights is good.”  
“You tapped into your power. It simply overflowed into the nearest conduit.”  
“Oh, great. You know you don’t make a whole lot of sense, Cas.”  
The angel twitched at the nickname.  
“Can you just show me how to hide my wings?” Dean asked. “They’re annoying.”  
“You’ll get used to them,” Cas promised.  
“Sure, but I can’t go out like this.” Dean argued, gesturing to the huge plumes. The feathers itched as Cas’ gaze raked over the white appendages.  
“You need to get used to your wings before you can learn to hide them. Besides that, you are still healing.”  
Dean grimaced. His shoulders were a mess of aching muscles and scabbed flesh. The place where wing met flesh was raw and red.  
“Fine, but if I knock over one more chair Bobby’s going to make me sleep outside.”  
Cas frowned, concern furrowing his brow.  
“I’m joking. Get a sense of humor, Cas. For my sake.”  
Cas nodded seriously. Dean groaned and rolled his eyes.  
“Let’s get back to your lesson, Dean. Close your eyes.”  
***  
Bobby found Sam sulking at the kitchen table.  
“What’s eating you?”  
“How come I haven’t gotten wings yet?” Sam asked the tabletop.  
Bobby sighed. “You really want to go through what Dean did? He’s still hurting.”  
“Yeah, but he’s a real angel now. I’m still just… whatever.”  
“You’ll grow into it.”  
“What… what if I don’t?” Sam asked. He turned wet eyes on Bobby. “I’ve always been slower at the angel stuff than Dean. He could talk to me in my head way before I could answer him.”  
Bobby stopped short. “You can talk to each other?” He’d always wondered, but Sam and Dean never told him what was going on between them.  
Sam shrugged. “Only when we’re making eye contact. It’s kind of useless. We could just say stuff out loud and it would be the same.”  
Bobby thought about it for a long minute. “If you’re really worried, you should talk to Castiel. He’s in the living room with Dean.”  
Bobby clapped Sam on the shoulder. “For now, I gotta get to work. Somebody’s got to keep the lights on in this place.”  
Bobby’s normal day at work consisted of accepting the crushed remains of cars that tow truckers brought him, and then finding scrap metal dealers to take useable pieces of trash away. He worked mostly in the garage beside the house. His hands were always covered in grease, and he had a constant layer of sweat on his forehead. Bobby knew everything about every lemon car that was ever made. And about the best kind of cars, too.  
The ’67 Chevy Impala was beaten to hell. The fender was bent, all the headlights were smashed. The diver’s side door was missing, and the interior was ripped, practically shredded. The paint was scratched, and rust hung on to the frame. In a word, it was junk.  
“Holy crap!” Dean ran a hand over the dented hood, grinning. “She’s beautiful!”  
Bobby grunted. “Maybe once. It’s only scrap now.”  
Dean gasped dramatically. “Shut your mouth. This baby could still beat any foreign flashy car.”  
Bobby laughed. Dean was prancing around the car, ducking to look inside and smoothing his hands over every surface. There was nothing like the love between a boy and his first car.  
“If you want it, you’ve got to fix it yourself.” Bobby said, crossing his arms.  
“Really?” Dean perked up, his wings twitching. “Bobby, I swear, she’ll be like new in no time.”  
The front door crashed open and Sam came stumbling down the steps, wiping at his eyes.  
“Hey,” Dean straightened. “What’s the matter?”  
Sam stopped short, eyes wide.  
Bobby remembered what Sam had said about the boys’ communication technique. “Use your words.”  
Sam’s face crumbled. He rushed Bobby, crushing himself into Bobby’s arms. “He said I’m not a proper angel,” Sam hiccupped.  
“What?” Dean gasped.  
“Cas says there’s something wrong with me. I’m never going to be fixed,” Sam choked on his sobs. Bobby rubbed a hand over his shoulders, soothing.  
Dean pulled at Sam’s shoulder until they were eye to eye. Sam didn’t loosen his grip on Bobby. Dean’s ruffled wings made a warm shield around the three of them.  
“Did Cas say you were sick or something? What was it? Tell me.” Dean demanded, panic sharpening his voice.  
Sam sniffed, “He said it was something in my blood. Something blocking my angelic grace. He says that’s why my wings haven’t grown in yet.”  
Dean cursed. Bobby didn’t have the heart to tell him to watch his mouth. Sam’s shaking breaths rushed through his ears. Bobby had to blink back his own tears. His boys didn’t deserve this. What had they done to earn all this pain?  
The front door swung open. Cas stepped outside with his trench coat folded over his arm. Dean detached himself from Sam to go over to Cas.  
“Why would you scare Sam like that?”  
Cas blinked slowly. “Your brother is an abomination.”  
Dean jerked back in surprise. Anger flooded his blood. “Shut your mouth.”  
“He has been tainted. It’s not his fault. But it has made his grace weak and it will be difficult for him to mature into a full angel.” Cas sighed. “He may never grow his wings, and he may never be able to fly.”  
Dean’s head snapped up. “We can fly?”  
Cas frowned. “What purpose did you think wings served besides flight?”  
“When can I learn to fly?”  
Cas quirked a rare smile. “The moment your injuries are healed.”  
Dean ruffled his wings. “I need to learn fast, don’t I? That’s why you’re here teaching me the basics? Something’s coming.”  
Cas nodded. “Something very terrible indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come check me out on Tumblr @headfulloffantasies


	14. Spreading Your Wings

Dean was elbows deep in the guts of the Impala when Cas manifested behind him.  
“Hello, Dean.”  
Dean dropped his wrench and cursed. “Don’t do that.”  
Dean turned around and grabbed the rag hanging off the frame of the car. He wiped the grease from his hands as he surveyed Cas. The angel was looking worse for wear. Running from both Heaven and Hell was starting to show in the dark circles under his eyes and the drooping shoulders.   
“You have something there,” Cas pointed to Dean’s cheek. Dean grumbled and swiped at the grease stain.   
“It’s time, Dean.”  
Dean’s heart leaped. He’d waiting all week for Cas to show up. The raw edges of the wounds on his shoulders had finally healed over, and he could flap the white plumage without pain. Dean was ready to learn to spread his wings.  
Trekking out to the back forty where Dean and Sam had learned to shoot cans was an adventure. In the seven years they’d been gone, no one had bothered to tend the weeds. Thistles clung to the feathers trailing behind Dean. Burs latched onto his pant legs and his wings. He’d need a fine-toothed comb to rake all the crap out when they were done.  
Cas stopped in the middle of a golden patch of grass. “This will do.”  
Ebony shadows spilled from Cas’ back, lifting into his ephemeral wings. Dean self consciously pulled his own wings closer to his body.   
“Do I need a magic feather, Dumbo?”  
“Do you have a magic feather?” Cas asked with a furrowed brow.  
“Never mind,” Dean sighed. “What do I do?”  
Cas’s eyes softened. “If you had been raised in Heaven you would have been flying since the dawn of time. You would have soared between the nebulae of galaxies as they formed in the rift between darkness and chaos. You could have skimmed your feathers over the primordial deep before the land and the water had been separated.”  
Something caught in Dean’s throat. He’d never considered that his life with Bobby was lacking anything. He hadn’t known what he’d been missing.  
Cas continued, “Spread your wings. You’ll know what to do.” Cas reached out and touched Dean’s forehead.  
Wind suddenly rushed through Dean’s ears. His stomach plummeted as the ground vanished beneath his feet. He was a thousand feet up. He was falling.  
“Cas!” Dean screamed. He flailed. He wasn’t flying, he was dropping like a brick. The ground was coming up quick. Dean squeezed his eyes shut. He braced himself to become street pizza. The impact didn’t come.   
Dean opened his eyes. Cas frowned in his face. “Focus, Dean. Again.”  
Dean plunged. The field was rushing up to meet him. Dean tried to suck in a breath. The wind stole it from his lips. Focus, Cas said. Dean closed his eyes. The wind was rushing through his feathers. Some instinct in his blood forced Dean to unfurl his wings. The wind caught in his plumage. Dean’s descent halted. He jerked as the wings opened like a parachute. He flapped back against the pressure and bobbed up a few feet.   
Dean twisted around, his heart slamming against his ribs. Cas soared next to him, wings beating calmly.   
“This is so cool,” Dean breathed.  
Cas smirked and tucked his wings into his sides. Cas dove, zooming towards the ground. A shout died in Dean’s throat as Cas opened his wings and careened back up to Dean’s level.   
“You gotta show me how to do that!” Dean demanded. A wide grin stretched across his face. He felt light as a feather, pun intended.   
Below, the field stretched golden. The house was a cute little dollhouse next to the scrap pile. Dean leaned forward and swooped closer. Instinct was taking over. He was still clumsy, but Dean thought he was getting the hang of it.   
“This is amazing!” Dean laughed. He soared, learning to bank and trust his instincts until finally he had to land, exhausted.  
Cas touched down neatly in the grass, not even breaking his stride. Dean bent his knees for the impact. He hit the ground and stumbled, rolling head over heels. He popped right back up, brushing the dust off his jacket.   
“I can’t wait till Sammy’s wings grow in.” Dean grinned as he jogged to catch up with Cas. “We’re going to have so much fun.”  
Cas frowned, refusing to look at Dean. “Your brother might never gain his wings, Dean. We have no way of knowing what affect the contamination of his blood may have.”  
Dean deflated. “About that, do you know what it was that changed him? What’s inside him?”  
Cas shook his head. “Some form of demonic influence. But it has been in Sam so long it is no longer distinct from his own cells. I cannot tell what it is.”  
Cas suddenly stumbled. Dean reached out to steady him. Cas pushed his hand away.  
“I’m fine. The angels are speaking.”  
Dean listened hard, trying to tap into the power Cas had been teaching him of. “I don’t hear anything.”  
“It’s a coded message on a back channel. Even I am not meant to hear it,” Cas explained quickly. “I have to go. This is important.”  
“Wait, what about-,” Dean started.  
Cas vanished.  
“Great,” Dean grumbled. “Thanks a lot.”


	15. King of Fools

Dean lay on the couch with a heap of books crushing him. Somewhere there was a clue to what the demons and angels had planned. Sam sighed every ten minutes or so at Bobby’s desk as he leafed through tomes of prophecy. Sam leaned back and stretched out his shoulders, rubbing at his sore neck. Dean underlined a passage in his book and threw the pencil at Sam’s head. It clipped Sam’s ear and bounced across the carpet.  
“What the hell, Dean?” Sam snapped.   
“I’m bored.” Dean groaned. “If I have to read another entry on exorcisms, I’m going to stab my eyes out.”  
“So, go do something, I’m working.”  
Dean grumbled. He unearthed himself from his mountain of books. “Drink?”  
“Water.”  
“Spoilsport.”  
Dean only took two steps before lightning slammed into him. Dean dropped to his knees. His skull was cracking open. Voices shrieked, screaming and tearing through him. The noise. It was killing him. He clutched at his ears. It did no good, the sounds were coming from inside his head.  
Through the haze and the pain, Dean heard Sam groan.  
“What’s happening?” Dean yelped.  
“I don’t know,” Sam panted. “Angels.”  
Dean grabbed onto one strand of voice and focused. “Virginia is under siege…” the voice hissed. “Rivers of blood…” Another voice reported. “Hundreds dead…”  
After what felt like an eternity the volume decreased enough for Dean to pull himself back onto the couch. Sam pressed his forehead against the desk, hands clamped over his ears. Dean threw himself on the couch with a whine.  
Bobby skidded into the room. “You boys okay?”  
“It’s like the whole world is screaming inside my head,” Sam groaned.  
“Like a Bon Jovi concert,” Dean agreed.  
“I’ve got reports coming in from across the globe. Omens lighting up the world. Earthquakes, mass possessions, the whole lot,” Bobby declared.  
“Why?” Dean asked. He was having a hard time caring when his head was about to pop open like a melon.  
“I dunno,” Bobby shrugged. “But the demons are throwing a hell of a party.”  
The voices stopped as suddenly as they started. Dean lifted his head to meet Sam’s bewildered gaze. A sledgehammer was still pounding in Dean’s skull, but at least his ears weren’t bleeding anymore.  
Cas suddenly materialized in the center of the room. He swayed and stumbled.  
“Cas!” Dean was up and at the angel’s side in an instant. Cas grabbed Dean’s arm. Dean yelped, fire racing through the spot of contact. Cas’s eyes rolled back and he fell dead-weight against Dean.   
“Cas!” Dean groaned under his weight. “Little help?”  
Bobby and Sam helped Dean lay Cas out on the couch.   
“I ain’t got an angel med kit anywhere. He’s just gonna have to sleep it off.” Bobby said gruffly.  
Dean dropped into the armchair beside the couch. “I’ll stay with him.”  
Bobby nodded. “I gotta follow up on some of these omens. Sam, come help me.” They hurried upstairs, leaving Dean alone with the unconscious angel.  
Dean rubbed at the spot where Cas had latched onto him. It ached. He rolled up his sleeve, expecting a bruise to be forming.  
“The hell?” Dean cried. A red, raw handprint burned into his bicep. In the light of the lamp, Dean inspected the inflamed skin on his bicep. Cas might as well have branded him.  
“I’m sorry,” Cas’ rough voice ground through the room.   
Dean jerked his head up. Cas’ blue eyes were glued on the handprint.   
Dean scrambled to Cas’ side. “Are you okay?”  
Sad eyes remained on Dean’s injury. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”  
“What the hell is this, Cas?”  
“Hellfire.” Cas said bluntly. “I went to Hell.”  
Dean stared incredulously. “Why?”  
“To find out what the demons are doing.”   
“And?”   
“Call your brother.” Cas said gravely.  
“Sam! Bobby!”  
They both came running. Everyone huddled around Cas on the couch as the angel pulled himself up to sitting. It was an awkward shuffle to accommodate Dean’s wings.  
“Lucifer is dead.” Cas declared.  
“Yay,” Dean waved limp jazz hands. Sam shot him an annoyed look.  
“How do you kill the Devil?” Sam asked.   
“I’m not sure,” Cas shook his head. “Lucifer has been imprisoned in the Cage since the Garden. But every source confirms, he’s dead. The omens across the world are demons celebrating.”   
“Good riddance, I say.” Bobby grumbled.  
Cas was quiet for a moment. “But then why are the demons celebrating?”  
A shiver passed over Dean.  
“The angels have opened all communications,” Cas said. “That’s what you heard. Even human psychics should be able to hear it. Reports of bloodbaths and mass possessions. Massive earthquakes and storms.”  
“So, what are the angels doing about it?” Sam demanded.  
“Nothing.”  
Sam straightened. “Nothing? Thousands of people are dying and the angels are doing nothing?”  
“They are preoccupied,” Cas said carefully.   
“With what?” Sam spat.  
“Finding out how exactly the Devil was killed and why the demons think it is a good thing.”  
“What did you find?” Dean asked, crossing his arms.  
Cas sat up stiffly. “There is a small faction who were sent on secret mission. They’re here, in Sioux Falls.”   
Fear dripped venom down Dean’s spine. “Not good. What do we do?”  
“We stop them.” Cas turned his intense stare on him. “Whatever they have planned, it is focused here.”  
Sam rolled his shoulders. “Are they here for us?”  
“Possibly,” Cas admitted.  
Sam turned to pace the room. Dean watched him, dread filling him unexpectedly. Dean searched out the source of the feeling. It wasn’t his. It was rolling off of Sam, lighting up their connection. Sam glanced up, and Dean caught his eye.  
“You okay?” He asked silently.  
Sam jerked a nod. His face was pale and sweaty.   
“You don’t look good,” Dean mentally said.  
“I’m fine,” Sam growled back through the link. He turned away, shearing the connection. Worry pinched Dean’s gut.   
“Are the angels coming here to Sioux Falls?” Bobby asked, refocusing Dean’s attention.   
“Not that I know of,” Cas answered. “The angels don’t know Sam and Dean are here. They wouldn’t know that the demons are here for you.”  
Cas stood so suddenly that Dean lurched back. “I will scout out the demons.”  
Dean blinked and Cas vanished. Dean blinked again and Cas reappeared three feet to the left of where he was before.  
“They have converged in the basement of a house belonging to a Jody Mills.”  
“Sheriff Jody Mills?” Bobby piped up.  
Cas’ shrug telegraphed that he did not ask her profession but assumed it must be the woman of whom Bobby spoke.  
“I know her,” Bobby said gravely. “We gotta do something.”  
Cas nodded. “We do. Whatever the demons are planning is not good.”  
“So, invasion plan?” Dean offered. “Cas and I can fly in. Sam and Bobby-,”  
“I can’t,” Sam interrupted. Sweat dripped down his face.  
Dean rounded on him. “What do you mean, you can’t?”  
“I’m not feeling well.”  
“Tough,” Dean growled.  
“Dean,” Bobby’s hand landed on Dean’s shoulder.  
Sam leaned hard against the wall for support. He slid down to sitting. A red smear followed his progress down the wall.   
“Sam!” Dean was at his side in an instant. Sam lolled boneless. Dean pulled him away from the wall. Sam’s back was a mess of blood. He keened at Dean’s touch.   
“His wings are trying to grow in.”  
Sam shuddered. “It hurts.”  
“I know,” Dean smoothed Sam’s sweaty hair from his face.  
Cas spoke up. “We can’t delay finding the demons.”  
Dean whirled on him, “We can’t leave Sam alone.”  
“The demons won’t be here long,” Cas insisted.  
“Then someone has to go to Sheriff Mills’ and someone has to stay with Sam.”  
“No,” Sam protested. He shoved at Dean’s hands. “Leave me here. I’ll be fine. Dean got through this, so will I.”  
Cas shifted his feet. Dean read the guilt and worry in the angel’s face. “What is it?”  
“Sam will almost certainly have a more difficult time of it than Dean did. The demonic influence inside him will be battling against this angelic intervention.”  
“What are you saying?” Dean’s hands shook. He clenched them tightly. “Are you saying he might die?”  
Cas said nothing. Ice ran down Dean’s shoulders. His feathers ruffled in agitation.   
“I’ll stay,” Bobby said. He crossed his arms. “I’m the weakest link here, being human and all. I’ll make sure Sam’s okay.”   
Cas nodded. “I need to prepare a few things. Be ready to leave.”  
Dean turned back to Sam. Sam’s breaths were short, forced out between clenched teeth.   
“Up you get,” Dean slung Sam’s arm over his shoulder. Sam whined at the contact. Bobby took Sam’s other arm and they half carried Sam up to his room. They were almost at the bed when Sam went limp, the tension dropping from his muscles. Dean and Bobby stumbled under the sudden deadweight.   
“He’s alright,” Bobby assured Dean’s flash of panic. “He’s just passed out. Best thing for him right now. He’s in for a hell of a ride.”  
They laid Sam down. He was so pale, he looked like the ghosts Dean and Sam hunted.  
“Bobby,” Dean choked. Tears burned the back of his throat. “If he doesn’t make it-,”  
“I know, me too,” Bobby said gently.  
Dean shook his head. “I mean it. If he doesn’t make it, I’ll drive myself off a cliff. I’m not joking.”  
Bobby squeezed his shoulder. The simple connection grounded Dean’s churning emotions. He dragged in a ragged breath. “I’ve got to get ready. Let me know if he wakes up. I want to say goodbye.”  
Cas waited at the base of the stairs with Dean’s hunting bag over his shoulder.  
Cas’ intense gaze met Dean’s tear stained eyes. “Are you sure you’re ready for this, Dean?”  
“Do we have a choice?” Dean brushed passed him. “Let’s go.”  
***  
The sun had dropped below the horizon when they arrived in town. Jody Mills’ house was dark. Dean and Cas went around the back, slinking through the shadows to her back door. Dean picked the lock while Cas kept watch and then they were inside.   
The house was silent as a grave. The streetlight outside illuminated an empty kitchen and an abandoned living room. A creak echoed from the door in the corner of the kitchen. Dean assumed it went to the basement.  
“There are four demons. Down there,” Cas nodded to the door.   
“Then we’ll have to draw them out, won’t we,” Dean picked up his duffle. They took several minutes of tense silence to prepare for the demons.   
When they were ready, Dean placed a hand on the basement doorknob.  
“Stay sharp,” Dean whispered. He ripped the door open. A flight of stairs descended into darkness. Dean discharged two salt rounds into the dark. The shotgun blast illuminated an unfinished basement, the walls bare plaster and the floor cement. Nothing else was visible in those short shots.   
A scuttling noise followed, like rat claws scratching over wood. A figure hurled itself out of the dark, aiming for Dean’s face. He lifted he shotgun too late. It barreling into him and they went spinning to the ground, the gun flying from Dean’s reach. Cas was there in an instant, lifting the demon and slamming the Demon Knife into its neck. It sparked and died. Cas tossed the body aside like a ragdoll.   
Another demon dove from the stairwell. Cas swiftly dispatched it while Dean got to his feet. A third demon slammed into Dean’s back. They crashed together into the fridge. Dean grunted and shoved the demon aside. It circled him like a lion. Dean panted, trapped between the fridge and the demon. The demon was wearing the body of a woman with long brown hair and a mean smirk.   
“Hiya, Dean,” she simpered. “Where’s Sammy?”  
She attacked, clawing at Dean’s wings. He yelped as she tore great handfuls of feathers out by the root. He gave a mighty flap of the wings, sending the demon flying into the living room. Dean followed. She leapt, claws at the ready. Dean hurled the demon away from him. She landed hard on her side on the area rug. She jumped up, stalking straight at Dean with teeth bared. She halted so abruptly it was if she’d hit a wall. Her snarl sagged in confusion as she struggled to step forward. Dean grinned and toed back the edge of the rug. Red paint winked on the floorboards.  
“A demon trap, how mundane,” the demon drawled.   
“Hey, it works,” Dean shrugged.  
A flash of fiery light announced the finish of Cas’ fight with the last demon. He marched into the living room, wiping the Demon Knife on the tail of his trench coat. He handed Dean the blade and stepped to the border of the trap.  
“Now, you will tell us what you have planned, Demon.”  
“Meg,” the demon spat. “I have a name, just like you Castiel.”  
“And you’re going with Meg?” Dean smirked.  
Meg lifted her chin. “It’s short for Megareth, Duke of Hell.”  
“Hell has royalty?”  
“Dean,” Cas steered them back on topic. “Meg, you will tell us what the demons have planned.”  
“Absolutely, sugar,” Meg giggled. “We’re going to win the war.”  
“War?” Dean frowned.  
“The war between Heaven and Hell. Our side has just been handed the trump card, baby. There’s no way for us to lose.”  
“Explain yourself,” Cas commanded.  
Meg prowled the edges of the demon trap. Dean was struck with the image of a cat stalking the confines of its cage. And he was the mouse lucky enough to be on the other side of the bars.   
“Our Father, Lucifer, spoke to us before he died. Every demon, from Pandemonium to Illinois heard his voice.”  
“What did he say?” Cas growled.  
“He told us how to defeat the angels. The Throne of Hell must have a King.”  
“A King?”  
Meg nodded, the self-satisfied smile never leaving her lips. “Lucifer was King. He was an angel fallen past the depths of demons. We need a new king. The Throne of Hell can be unlocked only by the King of Hell.”  
“How do you pick a King of all Douchebags?” Dean asked.  
Meg tutted. “Hell is having tryouts. Our own Olympics, as it were.”  
“Stop stalling,” Cas snapped. “Get to the point.”  
“What, you don’t like a little foreplay?” Meg giggled. “I guess it’s true what they say; angels are no fun.”  
“Lucifer is dead.” Meg continued, “But he left instructions. How to make a new king, step by step.”  
“Why don’t you just elect a demon and be done with it?” Dean sassed.   
Meg hummed. “Demons are… flawed. We were made in the image our creator when he was at his weakest.”  
“How do you make a demon? A cake mix and a spoonful of murder?” Dean smirked, but his heart raced faster the longer the conversation dragged out. His mind kept flying back to Sam’s pale face at home.  
Meg chuckled. “We were all human souls once, did you know that? Lucifer tortured us in hell, ripped the humanity from our souls, and whatever was left he gave life.”  
“How does that make you flawed? Besides the obvious?”  
“You kill witches all the time, Dean.” Meg admonished. “Haven’t you learned anything from them? Intention is everything. We were made as an act of spite. We can never be anything but a blight against Heaven. But Lucifer… he was made to lead and be worshiped. He was made in the light. Just like you and Sam.”  
Dean’s stomach twisted. “No.”  
She laughed. “Oh yes, ducky! We chose you a long time ago. One of you boys was always going to be King.”  
Dean growled. “We would never.”  
“Don’t look so scared, sugar. It’s not you.” Meg’s eyes flickered black. “We picked Sam.”  
“No.” Dean was going to be sick.  
“Yes.” Meg clapped her hands in glee. “It already began years ago. Lilith made sure of it before your bastard daddy sent her to the pit.”  
“What?”  
“I believe you called her Ms. Lyle. Sammy drank up the demon blood Lilith fed him like a good little boy. And then it was done. All we had to do was wait while the blood sat in him, dormant but not dead. Waiting to start the process.”  
Cas’ hand landed on Dean’s shoulder. “We need to get back to Sam, now.”  
Meg’s sharp laugh turned Dean’s stomach to lead. “You’re too late,” she cackled. “We already have him. Your little brother is riding the Highway to Hell. Why do you think I’m here? I’m the decoy.”  
“And now you’re dead,” Dean stepped into the trap and thrust the Demon Blade between Meg’s ribs. She gasped, her nails scraping at Dean’s shoulders. Golden fire sparked in her core and she fell limp. Dean was already crossing the doorway before her body hit the ground.  
“Dean,” Cas called out.  
“Hurry up,” Dean snarled.   
Cas caught his arm. Dean whirled, his fist raised to strike. But they weren’t in Jody Mills’ house anymore. A crater of fire surrounded them.   
“Cas, where are we?” Dean gasped.  
“I don’t understand,” Cas spun in a circle. “This is supposed to be Singer Salvage, but-,” A flash of light enveloped Cas. Dean threw up his arms and slammed his eyes shut. When he blinked them open, Cas was gone.   
Dean whipped around, searching for anything that made sense. A blackened husk smoldered, the bones of a house barely standing. Small fires burned all around, smoke and ash wafting up into the night.   
Something landed on Dean’s back. He hit the ground, gravel splitting his chin. Dean threw an elbow. The weight knocked aside. Dean scrambled up. A bloody demon spit at him. Half its face was missing, flesh burned and raw. Black eyes rolled in agony.  
Dean unsheathed the Demon Knife and lunged. The demon was fast, dodging his strike. A soot stained jacket flung in ribbons behind it like a pair of scorched wings.   
It leaped at Dean and impaled itself on his knife. The fire burning through its corpse was lost in the inferno around them.   
Panting, Dean suddenly recognized the shape of the trash piles burning behind the house. The scrapyard. This was home.   
“Sam!” The scream tore itself from Dean’s very soul. His legs collapsed under him. “No, please, no.”  
The fire and smoke blurred as tears streamed down his face. Dean hardly noticed them. His breaths shuddered in his chest. Sam couldn’t be in the remains of the house. If it was true, Dean might a well curl up here and die.   
He was on his feet and running without even thinking it.   
Dean pushed through the remnants of the crumbling front door. Embers glowed all over the floor. The fridge and the oven were still mostly intact, black as coal. Dean didn’t notice. He was numb as ice. He shoved into the living room, ignoring the fluttering bits of ash, the remains of Bobby’s library of lore. The stairs groaned under Dean’s weight. He had to get to Sam’s room. He had to see.  
The last four steps were gone, leaving a plunging hole all the way to the foundation. Dean opened his wings and jumped. He crashed into the landing, ignoring the heat searing through his jacket. He shoved himself up, numb to the blistering pain in his palms.   
Sam’s room was at the end of the hallway. It seemed to stretch forever as Dean’s heart rattled. There was something dark washing over him. If Sam was dead, Dean would hunt to the ends of Hell itself for Meg and he would rip her worthless demonic soul to shreds. He would skin her alive and dump what was left of her in the lake of sulphur. And then he would do the same to every other piece pf hell-trash he could find. Every last demon would feel the weight of Dean Winchester’s pain.   
Dean pushed Sam’s door open. The room was relatively intact, compared to the rest of the house. The sheets on the bed were only smoke darkened, not singed. Spots of blood stood out starkly in the half light.   
Dean sagged against the end of the bed. His throat constricted and Dean choked. A horrific wheezing gurgled from his lips. He was crying again. Sobbing into his hands. He felt more than saw the presence in the room with him. Dean looked into blue eyes and then everything was black as Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've noticed a pattern in my writing for sending characters into literal fires. Maybe it has something to do with that Sherlock quote "amazing how fire exposes our priorities".


	16. Picking Up the Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doing some editing on a few chapters. If you happen to be re-reading, there might be some minor changes. Trust me when I say it will make the story better.

Dean woke up in a hospital chair. Machines beeped and antiseptic stung the back of his throat. His back ached, protesting a long night. He groaned as he stretched. He froze with his hands straining over his head. Something was wrong. The massive weight that dragged at Dean’s shoulders blades day and night was missing. Dean twisted to see behind him. His wings were gone. Dean panicked, tying himself in knots trying to reach his back. His fingers met resistance. He smoothed his hand over invisible feathers. Somehow their weight had lifted, and yet they were still there. His heart hammered. How was that possible?

Someone rustled next to him. Dean jumped.

Bobby lay asleep in the starched white hospital bed. 

“Bobby,” Dean croaked. He got up and went to Bobby’s side. The old man didn’t move. His hat was gone. Somehow that was the worst of all of this. His face was pale, the wrinkles lining his face starker without the shadow of his ever-present ball cap. 

The door opened and a blond doctor walked in, head buried in a chart. His shoes squeaked on the linoleum as he halted. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know he had any visitors.”

“I’m his son,” Dean explained in a tone that said he was not going to be removed from the room under any circumstances.

The doctor visibly relaxed. “Your father is in good shape, considering. He’s just sleeping off the sedative.”

“What happened to him?” 

The doctor frowned. “I’m sorry, I thought you knew. As far as we know, he was in the house when it caught fire. He was brought in with a severe concussion and some minor scrapes. But our biggest concern is the smoke inhalation.”

“Say that again,” Dean whipped around at Bobby’s raspy voice.

“Bobby, thank God.”

“Say that again,” Bobby repeated, his eyes locked on the doctor. “Tell me to my face that my wife’s house is gone.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Singer.”

“Get out of here with your apologies,” Bobby broke off in a coughing fit.

“Hey, Bobby, take it easy,” Dean touched his shoulder. Bobby shoved his hand away.

“Get out!” Bobby roared. He took a swing, despite being confined to the bed.

The doctor clutched his charts and made a speedy exit.

Bobby fell back against the flat pillow. He stared up at the white tiled ceiling, ignoring Dean’s pitiful fidgeting. 

“Bobby-,”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Bobby groused. “Is it true? Is the house gone?”

Dean swallowed hard. “Mostly. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you start.” Bobby dragged his eyes from the ceiling. “Where’s Sam?”

Dean’s throat closed entirely. He had to run a hand through his hair to keep his composure.

Bobby’s face fell. “No.”

“I went inside what’s left of the house,” Dean choked. “There’s nothing. No body-,” Dean gripped the edge of the hospital bed. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Dean,” Bobby’s hand gripped his shoulder. Dean turned into the touch, wrapping Bobby in a crushing hug. Bobby’s hands stroked up and down Dean’s spine, easing the tension.

“Where’s your wings, boy?” Bobby asked suddenly.

Dean flinched. “You can’t feel them?”

“Should I?” Dean didn’t let go of Bobby and Bobby didn’t stop rubbing circles over Dean’s back.

“I can feel them,” Dean said in a quiet voice. He twitched his primaries just to relish in the slide of feathers over each other. 

Bobby and Dean finally broke apart. 

“I wish I could do something for you,” Dean said with his eyes downcast. “But Sam was always better at the healing thing.”

“Don’t you worry about something like that. I wasn’t even going to ask that of you.”

***

They checked Bobby out of the hospital the next morning. There was no point in leaving him there to be stuck by needles. The prognosis wasn’t going to change. 

They went home. Singer Salvage was a smoking husk. 

“Reminds me of that crater I fished you out of,” Bobby said quietly as they drove up the gravel. Dean paused, one hand on the steering wheel. He looked up at the remains of the house. Sam’s empty room swam in front of his eyes. 

“Why did we come back?” Dean asked, more venom than he intended colouring his words. “There’s nothing left, Bobby.”

“This is home,” Bobby said simply. 

Bobby bundled himself out of the car the minute Dean pressed the brake.

“Gotta see what’s salvageable.”

“Very funny,” Dean groused. 

Dean walked out to the backyard. Most of the grass was still green, only singed in patches. The tree where Sam had healed Jo was still there, towering up over his head. It shouldn’t have been so tall, but young Sam hadn’t been able to control his powers. Instead of letting them surge into Jo, he’d stuck his hands in the earth and let all the energy run into the ground. The tree had fed off Sam’s power for years. Dean touched the bark. At eye level a set of initials were carved messily. SW and DW. Dean traced over the blocky S. 

“Please don’t be dead, Sam. Please,” Dean whispered. “I can’t without you.”

Bobby yelled from the front of the house. Dean hiked back to him.

“The Impala is still in one piece,” Bobby reported from the front porch.

“I don’t care about the car,” Dean snapped. “Where is Sam? Where’s his-,” Dean couldn’t finish. If there was no body, could Sam be…? Dean locked the door on that thought. He wouldn’t give himself the hope. Not if it wasn’t true. 

Bobby grunted and lifted a hand to point behind Dean. “We got a visitor.”

Dean turned. A figure stood at the edge of the driveway. A long coat billowed around him in the wind.

“Cas!” Dean rushed at him, unsure whether he was going to hug Cas or punch him. He settled for grabbing him by the shoulders while he took in the ragged edges of the angel.

“What happened to you?”

“I was forcibly returned to Heaven.” Cas’ face was haggard, worn with fatigue. Dean could only guess the fight he would have had to go through to get out of the Attic.

“That bright light?” Dean guessed.

“Yes, it was an Enochian sigil for casting out angels,” Cas nodded.

“Why didn’t it affect me?” Dean asked.

“This particular spell was intended to send angels back to where they came from, that is, Heaven. But you have never been to Heaven. And you are not yet a fully mature angel.”

Bobby ambled himself over, a scowl raging under his beard. “You look like you’ve been through the meat grinder.”

Cas said gloomily, “I have been even further stripped of power since my visit to Heaven.” He glanced sheepishly at Dean. “And I used considerable effort to place Dean in your hospital room without any… appendages showing.”

“You disguised my wings?” Dean gasped.

Cas nodded. “I am afraid it might have been too sentimental an endeavor. I now don’t have enough power for much of anything. And the demons responsible for burning your home got away.”

“We’ve got bigger problems. Sam-,” Dean swallowed hard around the sudden lump in his throat.

“Sam is not dead,” Cas said in unequivocal terms.

“What?” Dean choked.

“He has been taken. Just like the demon Meg said.”

“She said he was dead,” Dean argued.

Cas cocked his head to the side. “Why would you think that?”

Dean scoffed. “When Meg said Sam was going to Hell, I assumed it was in the traditional sense.”

Cas shook his head, “No, he is being kept alive in Hell. Body and soul. That makes it much more difficult.”

“I’ve missed your sunny disposition, Cas,” Bobby drawled. 

Dean couldn’t find the words. Sam was alive! But in Hell. How were they supposed to get to him now? What tortures was he enduring? 

Dean had to restrain himself from grabbing Cas by the tie and shaking him. “How do we get Sam?”

Cas leveled his cool gaze on Dean. “We go to Hell.”


	17. Heaven and Hell

Singer Salvage wasn’t inhabitable. Dean drove Bobby into town and found a cheap motel. He and Bobby barricaded themselves inside and hunkered down scouring for any way to get into Hell. 

Bobby took off to get supplies.

Alone in the motel room, the flamingos on the wallpaper were giving Dean an evil side-eye. He’d tried staring them down, but they didn’t blink. Somehow, the faded fuchsia glares became more malevolent. He pointedly ignored them and instead set out the guns on his bed for a thorough cleaning. If the weapons happened to intimidate the flamingos, all the better. 

The room door opened and Bobby hustled in, a bag slung over his shoulder.

“Where have you been?” Dean demanded. “I’ve been going buggy in here.”

Bobby dropped the bag on one of the twin beds. A landslide of books tumbled out. “Research.”

Dean picked one up at random. “Did you actually check out any of these books?”

“Do I look like I got a library card?” Bobby nodded at the stack. “That’s a millennium’s worth of lore on demons and Hell. Get reading.”

Dean lay on his stomach on the bed and flipped through books until he was seeing double. He was about to suggest a beer run when Bobby finally broke the silence.

“Well that’s something.”

Dean rolled off the bed and came to lean on the desk behind Bobby. “You got a way into Hell?” 

“You mean besides dying?” Bobby snarked.

“Are you going to be helpful?” Dean snapped.

“Don’t take that tone with me, boy,” Bobby spun around so he could look Dean in the eye. “I’m just as scared for Sam as you. So don’t bite my head off for showing a little emotion.”

“Sorry,” Dean mumbled. 

“Hell has a back door,” Bobby said, turning back to the desk. He picked up a book and tossed it to Dean. Dean fumbled it. He stared down at the yellowing page.

“Bobby, this is in Japanese,” Dean exclaimed.

“Yeah?”

Dean blinked. “I didn’t know you read Japanese.”

“It says there’s a way into Hell through the Gate.”

“What’s the Gate?” Dean asked, spinning the book this way and that. Which way was up in Japanese?

“My guess? The Devil’s Gate.”

“Sounds delightful. Where is it?”

Bobby spread a map over the desktop. “Here.”

Dean leaned over. Bobby’s finger pointed somewhere in Wyoming. 

Dean squinted at the map. “There’s nothing there.”

“Wrong,” Bobby grabbed a red pen and started tracing lines. “Samuel Colt built a line of railroads all through here. When you connect them…”

“A Devil’s Trap,” Dean mumbled as the red lines coalesced into the familiar star. 

“And right in the middle is Cavalry Cemetery. Legend says it’s a doorway into the Pit.”

“Legend?” Dean straightened. “Bobby, we need better than that.”

“We’ve killed more legends than God and now you want proof?” Bobby scowled.

“Fine. How to we open it?”

“With this,” a gravelly voice said.

Dean spun around. Cas stood int the middle of the room. Something about seeing his bedragged hair standing up against a background of flamingo wallpaper made Dean smirk.

“You’re going to need this,” Cas held out his hands. Laying across his palms was a beautiful antique pistol. “The Colt.”

Bobby perked up, “Samuel Colt’s gun?”

Cas nodded. “There are very few things in this universe that this gun cannot kill.”

“Where’d you get it?” Bobby asked as Dean carefully took it. The gun was smooth, cold steel in his hand.

“You don’t want to know,” Cas said. 

“So we go in… gun… blazing and rescue Sam from Hell? This plan seems a little fuzzy on the details,” Dean said.

“We need to know where Sam is being kept before we go,” Cas said. “Hell is vast, and they will know when we touch down.”

“Okay, so, any leads?” Dean asked, setting the Colt on the desk.

“None so far. Wherever he is, the demons aren’t talking.”

Dean nodded, “So we need to make one talk.”

Cas narrowed his eyes, “Are you considering torture?”

“For Sam, I’m willing to do anything. Anything.” Dean growled.

“Hang on a minute,” Bobby interjected.

“No, Bobby we get him back!” Dean snapped. “Any means necessary.”

“I hear you,” Bobby said firmly. “I do. But remember that it’s not just a demon you’ll be torturing. There’ll be some poor schmuck in there with the hellspawn.”

Dean closed his eyes. “I know,” he confessed to the darkness. “But I don’t know what else to do.”

“What would Sam say?” Bobby asked quietly. 

“Sam’s not here,” Dean barked. “And until he is, I’m game for whatever plan we’ve got.”

“I will get you a demon.”

Dean threw Cas a grateful look. The angel nodded and vanished in a blink.

Bobby glared at Dean and turned his back on him, pretending to go back to his books. 

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. Everything was falling apart. His world had been reduced to the anxiety clawing behind his ribs. He’d made a promise. Sam’s safety at any cost. Now Dean was starting to question whether the cost would be worth it. Would Sam want him to torture someone for him? Probably not. A dark thought fluttered through Dean’s mind. Sam didn’t have to know. They’d shared everything up until that point. Their minds were open books to each other. But not this. Sam could never know.

“I’m hungry, you want to get a burger?”

“Not right now,” Bobby didn’t look up from his reading. 

Worry gnawed at Dean’s stomach. “Bobby-,” 

“Later,” Bobby waved him away.

Dean grimaced. He grabbed his coat. “I’ll bring you something, okay?”

Bobby grunted. 

Dean walked across the street to the cheery diner boasting “the best burger in town” in its window.

He sat in a tacky red booth in the back and ordered. His meal arrived quickly. Dean hummed a thanks to the waitress and prepared to dig in.

“Dean Winchester,” a balding man in a suit sat down across from Dean. 

Dean put down his burger warily and reached for the gun in his waistband. “Who are you?”

“Zachariah,” the man offered a hand to shake. Dean would have to let go of the gun to shake his hand. He didn’t. 

Zachariah quirked a smile. “I’m an angel, Dean. Bullets won’t hurt me.”

Dean’s heart jumped. “Did Cas send you?”

“Cas? Castiel?” Zachariah laughed. “No, Dean. I’m here as an official representative of Heaven.”

Dean swallowed, “I got to tell you, I’m not a fan of the Upstairs.”

Zachariah nodded. “Drink?” He waved down a waitress and ordered a couple of whiskeys. 

Dean leaned across the table when she left. “What does Heaven want with me?”

Zachariah offered a salesman’s grin. “It’s what you want, Dean.”

“Right now, I want to eat in peace,” Dean groused. 

Zachariah smirked. “How would you like to know the reason you’re on earth?”

“If you start singing Kumbaya I will punch you,” Dean warned.

“No. It’s about Michael, and the structure of Heaven.”

Dean blinked. “I don’t get it.”

The waitress interrupted with the drinks. Zachariah waited until she was gone to lean forward. 

“Can I tell you a secret, Dean? Michael hasn’t been around for a very long time. His injuries after casting Lucifer into the pit were serious. He died.”

It took Dean a minute to process this. “So which arch-douche is in charge now?”

Zachariah tsked. “Not an archangel. Michael is dead, Gabriel vanished some time in Ancient Rome, Raphael is crazier than a bag of cats, and the Big Guy hasn’t been seen in an eon.”

Dean blinked. “Then where do your orders come from?”

Zachariah waved a vague hand. “Above.”

“That’s it? You don’t know, you don’t care, you just go where they tell you.” Dean said.

Zachariah held up his hands. “You see why we need you.”

“Not exactly.”

“You are meant to rule Heaven. You were made to rule Heaven.”

Dean sat back, askance. “Me? Sam and I were cast out.”

Zachariah frowned. “A rebel faction of angels didn’t believe in the Great Plan. I am sorry to say that we were woefully unprepared for them. They kidnapped you. Threw you away like trash. Isn’t that right, Castiel?”

Dean turned. Cas stood behind him, an angel blade in his hand.

“Cas?”

“Don’t listen to him, Dean.”

Zachariah scoffed. “Dean should listen to you? Your rebels stole him from his home.”

Dean’s insides turned to ice.

“No, Cas tell me he’s lying.”

Cas didn't meet his eye. “I was against the plan to kidnap you.”

“But you’re one of them?” Dean was incredulous. “Sam and I are here instead of Heaven and Sam is missing because of you?”

Cas studied the floor.

“Look at me!” Dean leaped to his feet.

Cas lifted his face. His blue eyes were fathomless wells of regret.

“You bastard,” Dean whispered. 

“Dean,” Cas took a step towards him.

“No!” Dean shouted. Cas halted. “You stay away from me. Everything that’s happened to us, the demons, Bobby’s house, Sam. All of that is on you, you hear me? We’re done.”

Cas vanished in a flutter of wings.

Dean let out a shaky breath. He turned back to the table. His legs almost gave out as he sat. Zachariah took a long drink from his tumbler.

“How come it took so long for you to find us?” Dean asked.

Zachariah laughed in derision. “You think we didn’t try? Fledglings are notoriously hard to track. But we found you in a timely manner.”

“Timely?”

“You understand that to us, a thousand years is a blink of an eye. Your pathetic human life was nothing to us.” Zachariah straightened his tie. “Now I’d love to continue this conversation, but we really need to get going.”

“What?”

“Time to head upstairs, Dean. Your new job starts right now.”

“No,” Dean shoved his chair back. “I have to find Sam.”

Zachariah frowned. “We’ll find him for you. Trust me.” Zachariah offered a hand.

Dean backed away, shaking his head. “I need to be here.”

Zachariah sighed. “I can’t let you stay here, Dean. It’s not safe.”

“Tough,” Dean snarled. “I haven’t been safe since I was born. I've made it this far. You’re just going to have to wait.”

Zachariah stared him down, icy calm radiating. 

“Fine,” he finally relented. “But we’ll be keeping a very close eye on you.”


	18. Cavalry Cemetery

The motel door slammed behind Dean. He was shaking, fury and fear, and hope warring in his veins. 

“Dean!” Bobby shouted as though he’d said Dean’s name several times.

Dean snapped his head up. Bobby was practically parked on his toes. “What?”

“What happened? You’re whiter than a ghost. Sit down.”

Dean sat on the edge of his bed; hands clasped on his knees. “You’re not going to believe this.”

Dean rehashed everything Zachariah had told him. “Cas was manipulating us the whole time. If it weren’t for him, we’d never be in this mess.” 

Bobby was quite for a long minute. “And you trust this Zachariah character?”

“He was right about Cas, why not this?”

“Something smells fishy,” Bobby mumbled. “Something ain’t right.”

“Yeah it ain’t right. Cas helped throw us out of Heaven.”

Bobby looked him in the eye, “Do you really want to rule Heaven?”

Dean scoffed. “Hell no. What do I know about Heaven?”

“But you’re willing to hitch your horse to Zachariah’s?”

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t know. He’s got resources, Bobby. He can help us find Sam.”

“How?”

“He didn’t say,” Dean admitted.

Bobby contemplated, chewing his beard.

“Are we still set on the Devil’s Gate?” Bobby asked.

“We can’t wait anymore,” Dean said. “Unless you’ve got something better.”

“Better say a prayer to your new pals upstairs.”

***

Cavalry Cemetery was a dark rot in the distance. Grey clouds swirled overhead, portents of the coming storm. Dean and Bobby got out of the Impala as lightning streaked across the sky. They trekked up the hill and through the rusted gates. Overgrown grass poked between the headstones. The stones gradually gave way to sagging mausoleums. The Elkins tomb was worn granite, ravaged by time and moss.

“This is it.”

Dean crouched at the door. A scratched lock was set directly into the stone. Engraved around it were symbols in an arcane tongue. Dean shifted his shotgun to the other hand and removed the Colt. The lock appeared to be the same size as the barrel.

“Dean,” Bobby warned. Dean turned. A figure stood between the gravestones. The wind whipped through dark, bedhead hair.

Dean passed his shotgun to Bobby and weaved his way between the headstones. 

“Cas,” he came to a halt with a stone between them. Cas kept his gaze fixed on the epithet engraved there.

“Dean,” Cas said. “I understand you don’t want to see me.”

“You got that right,” Dean growled. “So why are you here?”

“For Sam.”

Dean clenched his fists. “You don’t get to say his name. Not after what you did. We were helpless, and you threw us away. Why?”

“What did Zachariah tell you?” Cas asked.

“He told me everything.”

Cas flinched. “And you’re… on board?”

“For ruling Heaven? Hell no. But if the angels want to help me get Sam, then I’ll follow their lead.”

Cas was quiet. The wind howled between them. “If they care about Sam, where are they?”

“Right here.”

Dean spun. Zachariah leaned against a stone angel, the grey wings sheltering him from the rain.

“Are you here to help?” Dean asked. Cas crouched, his angel blade manifesting in his fist.

A frown wrinkled Zachariah’s brow. “We can’t let you go into Hell, Dean.”

“Sam is down there,” Dean ground out between his teeth. “Unless you bring him here right now, I’m going.”

Zachariah sighed. “I knew it was going to come to this. You’re so single minded about your brother.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. “We have a plan, Dean. Trust us. Come to Heaven, where it’s safe, and we’ll make sure Sam is taken care of.”

“Dean, don’t listen,” Cas pleaded. 

Zachariah waved his hand. Cas went flying end over end, and slammed into a headstone. He didn’t get up.

“What the hell, man?” Dean shouted. He was trembling inside, but he masked it with anger. If Zachariah decided to take Dean by force, he wasn’t sure he could fight him.

“Give me the Colt, and let’s go,” Zachariah demanded like a parent speaking to a tantruming child. 

Rage flared in Dean’s gut. He gripped the gun tight. Could he shoot Zachariah? He didn’t really want to kill the angel, but he couldn’t leave. Sam was so close. 

“Hey, idjit,” Bobby’s voice suddenly cut over the wind. Zachariah’s face exploded in a spray of blood. 

Bobby lowered the shotgun. “Dean, run!”

Zachariah was already straightening, his face reconstructing itself. 

Dean lunged, hopping up on a gravestone. He leaped. His wings unfurled in a cascade of feathers. He rocketed at the Elkins tomb and slammed into the door. The force of it knocked his breath from his lungs. The Colt fumbled in his hand. Zachariah yelled. Dean slid the barrel into the mechanism. He cranked the handle. It stuck. He yanked harder. Nothing. Zachariah was closing in.   
A hand fell over Dean’s. He looked up. Cas’s blue eyes were solemn. Together, they wrenched the handle. The sound of a thousand years of dust shifting broke like thunder. Zachariah was screaming. 

Dean and Cas tumbled into the abyss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sick, so I've been writing in a half-aware state. Please attribute any errors to cold medication


	19. The Cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heads up. Non-graphics descriptions of blood ahead

Dean fell end over end. He careened through darkness permeated by swift kicks in the rear. His body felt like it was being beaten with a sack of bricks. Finally, he rolled to a stop. Groaning, Dean pulled himself to his knees. The darkness ebbed. The foot of an endless staircase stretched up into shadow.   
“Good thing we didn’t bring Bobby,” he said to the stairs.  
“Dean,” Cas stood behind him, wreathed in shade. Dean stood. The darkness strained ever on, swirling with grey ash. Dean coughed as sulfur hit him in the nose. Ash fell like snow, settling on the shoulders of Cas’ coat and in his dark hair.   
“This way,” Cas led him away from the staircase. Dean tried covering his nose with his elbow, but the ash had already covered his sleeve.   
Visibility was so slim, he almost stumbled right into the first figure.  
“Sorry, pal,” Dean said. The person didn’t even look round. Dean looked closer and made out another figure in front of them, and another. They were human, but gaunt, pallid versions of humanity. The falling grey thinned a moment and Dean gasped.  
A long line of grey people in rags extended right and left into the endless night. Somewhere over the dark horizon a red haze burned like fire.   
“What is this?” Dean scrambled back.  
“This is Hell,” Cas said simply.   
“No kidding.”  
“This is where human souls go,” Cas explained. “They walk towards the light but they never reach it.”  
Dean stared at the angry red glow. “But where’s the torture?”  
“This is torture,” Cas insisted. “They never reach their goal. They will spend eternity like this, never experiencing anything new or different. Some of them have hope that the light is Heaven and if they can only reach it, they will be saved. But they never do.”  
Dean shuddered. “Alright. But is Sam supposed to be here, shuffling around?”  
“No, this way.” Cas spread his wings and soared up into the cinder sky.  
Dean followed. From above, the ash and the red glow mixed to give it the appearance of a distant volcano.   
Cas flew in the opposite direction, away from the light. Gradually, the grey dust whipping past thinned and faded into nothingness. It was just black. Nothing but night. No moon, no stars, no fires below. Dean was straining to keep Cas in view. Cas glanced back and noted Dean’s struggle. A glow enveloped his ebony wings. Lightning blue edged the feathers, tracing pinions and primaries.   
Awe filled Dean’s chest. He trailed through Hell behind an angel glowing with heavenly light.   
After an eon Cas dipped and touched down in utter blackness.   
Dean stumbled his landing, feet kicking up sharp rocks.  
“Hush,” Cas warned. “We don’t want to be found here.”  
“Where are we?” Dean could only see as far as Cas’ ephemeral light. They were surrounded by razor sharp outcrops of obsidian rock that blended almost seamlessly into the blackness.  
Cas reached out and placed a hand on the only smooth surface Dean could see. Cas mumbled something Enochian. The rock gave way. It collapsed like it had been nothing more than shadow.   
Dean took a step forward. Cas grabbed his arm. “Sam is close. He will be well guarded. We may have to fight our way through.”  
Dean pulled out the Colt. “That’s what this is for.”  
“Dean, do you trust me?”  
“What does that mean?”  
Cas levelled a serious gaze at him.  
“No,” Dean admitted. “I don’t know who to trust. You and Zachariah are both playing games and I don’t know what you want with me.”  
Cas’ hand slackened on Dean’s arm.  
“But,” Dean continued. “I trust you to have my back against demons. I trust you to help me get Sam. After that…” he shook his head.  
Cas nodded. “Thank you, Dean.”  
Dean frowned. “Let’s get this over with.”  
They stepped through the doorway. The sudden light was searing after the abyss. Dean threw a hand over his eyes. His feet sank into a plush carpet.   
“Hello, Dean,” a British accent rumbled.  
Dean lowered his hand. A short demon in a black suit lounged behind an ornate desk. The room was styled as a posh office in rich reds and dark wood.   
“Who’re you?” Dean grumbled.  
The demon’s eyes flickered red. “Crowley, King of Hell.”  
A jolt of cold terror raced down Dean’s spine. He lifted the Colt.   
“Ah ah ah.” Faster that Dean could track, Crowley was behind him. Dean whirled. Crowley ducked behind Cas’ shoulder.   
“Hold on, Rambo.”  
“Dean, wait,” Cas moved to shield Crowley further.  
“Cas, move,” Dean aimed.  
“Hear him out.”   
Dean stopped cold. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”  
“We made a deal, squirrel,” Crowley said.  
Dean frowned at the nickname. “The only deal I’m going to make is your life for Sam. Cas, move.”  
“I made the deal,” Cas said. Dean turned furious eyes on him. Cas held his hands out placating.  
“Allow me to explain. Five minutes,” Crowley offered.  
Dean shifted his gaze back and forth between the angel and the demon. “Five minutes.” He lowered the Colt.  
“Sit,” Crowley snapped his fingers. Two wing backed chairs appeared facing the desk.  
Crowley went and sat behind the desk, fingers steepled in front of his chin.   
“Your brother, Sam-,”  
“You don’t get to say his name,” Dean interrupted. He stayed standing in the center of the room, radiating fury.   
“Your brother,” Crowley continued diplomatically. “Is in the Cage.”  
“What does that mean?” Dean demanded.  
“If you would let me finish, I WOULD TELL YOU!” Crowley roared. Dean glared him down, affronted.  
Crowley leaned back, acting as if his outburst never happened. “The Cage held Lucifer for thousands of years. Lucifer finally perished down there. It is an inescapable hole.”  
A tiny noise escaped Dean’s throat.  
“So you see why we have to rescue him. Drink?” Crowley manifested a crystal decanter of liquor.  
Dean spluttered. “You want to break Sammy out of the Cage? Why?”  
Crowley poured himself a measure of the amber liquid. “The faction that stole your brother from you are a superstitious and cowardly lot with high ambitions. They think they can shoehorn your little angel into a prophecy he has no business fulfilling.”  
Crowley smoothed a hand over his silver paisley tie. “They are calling him the Boy King of Hell.”  
Dean’s stomach sank. “No.”  
“I agree, it’s tacky,” Crowley mused. “So you see why I need him gone.”  
Dean nodded. “So what’s the plan?”  
“Walk in, walk out, don’t get killed,” Crowley shrugged. “You’ll need a key to get into the Cage. Here,” Crowley opened a drawer in his desk and removed something oblong. He tossed it to Dean. Dean caught it. Four interlocked rings sat in the palm of his hand. “What is this?”  
“The key, numbskull. And I’ll want it back after this. There are a few demons I’d like to lock in the Cage for eternity.”  
Dean scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “I still don’t understand why you’re helping us.”  
“Because I am the King of Hell. And it’s good to be King. I will not have your snot nosed brother on my throne.”  
Crowley turned his wrist, checking his watch. “You’ll want to go now. Out that door to the left. You have five minutes before the guard change catches you.” Crowley nodded to a door that materialised in the wood panelling. Cas opened it and poked his head through.   
“Good luck and all that.”  
Dean followed Cas. The door led to a dim grey hallway.   
“Don’t forget our bargain, angel,” Crowley called. Dean threw a glare at him. The door closed on its own, sealing perfectly into the stone wall as if it had never been.  
“What kind of deal did you make?’ Dean whispered.  
“Later,” Cas said. “Right now, we have to hurry.”  
They turned left and found a door marked ‘Danger’.   
“Sounds about right,” Dean mumbled. There was no doorknob or key hole. Dean ran his hands over the smooth grey surface. It was like any other industrial door, just without any access. Dean withdrew the interlocked rings. “How do they work?”  
The rings flew from his hand, gluing themselves magnetically to the door. Something clanged deep within. The door swung open.   
Dean raced inside while Cas held the door. He held the Colt out as a warning. It was dark inside, a single shaft of light coming from an unknown source. The Cage was styled as a prison cell. The floor was cement that echoed Dean’s footfalls. White chaff was strewn about the ground. Bars covered every wall. Behind them there was nothing. The same blackness that Dean and Cas had flew through surrounded the Cage. Dean’s eyes finally adjusted to the dark. A lump lay curled in a ball in the corner. Dean’s heart leaped.  
“Sam?”  
“Dean?” A groan answered. Dean dropped to his knees beside his brother. White chaff fluttered around them where he’d disturbed it.   
Dean pulled Sam up. Sam moaned. His shirt clung to him, wet with sweat and sticky with blood. Dean swallowed hard. He smoothed Sam’s hair from his face. Sam’s eyes were only half open, unfocused. Blood smeared down his chin.   
“I’ve got you,” Dean crooned. “Time to go.”  
Sam clung to the back of Dean’s coat, jostling his wings. Something scratched at the back of Dean’s mind. He shoved the thought aside, focusing on hugging his brother.   
“Come on, we’re in a rush,” Dean pulled Sam to his feet. Sam stumbled. More white fluff scattered around them. One of them landed on the back of Dean’s hand. His lungs constricted. It was a feather.   
Dean locked eyes with Sam. His mind reached out for Sam’s, for the connection they’d shared since childhood. He met only cold emptiness. “No,” Dean choked. “Please, no.”  
“I’m sorry,” Sam mumbled.  
Dean couldn’t speak passed the lump in his throat. He hoisted Sam’s arm over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”  
It was harder to ignore the bloodstains now. The whole Cage was a mess of feathers and red smears.   
Cas stared at Sam as they hobbled out into the light. He opened his mouth.  
“Not now,” Dean cut him off. “We have to go.”  
Cas nodded. “The guards will be here any second.”  
“Which way is out?”  
Cas smirked. “Up.”  
He opened his wings and leapt straight at the ceiling. A shout died in Dean’s throat. Cas rocketed through the ceiling as if it had been made of smoke.  
Dean glanced down at Sam. He sagged against Dean’s side. Dean rearranged him in his arms.   
“Hang on,” Dean unfurled his wings and jumped.


	20. Aftermath

They materialised in Bobby’s motel room. Cas must have had a hand in that, because Dean hadn’t been thinking about anything but the limp weight of Sam in his arms.  
“Help,” Cas demanded the moment they were solidly in the room.   
Bobby startled, a gun halfway cocked.  
“Sam,” he breathed.  
Dean deposited Sam’s unconscious form on one of the beds. He’d passed out some time ago.  
Sam looked even worse in the light. He was drenched in sweat. Red flaked off his face, dried blood staining his chin. He was as pale as Death.   
Bobby immediately went to work, shoving Dean aside. Dean stumbled back until his wings hit the wall. He clutched at his head, staring down at Sam. Sam, whose wings Dean had never had a chance to see. Sam, who had been tortured. Sam, who had always been connected Dean’s mind. Until now. The empty pit yawned in Dean’s mind where Sam’s thoughts had tangled with his. Their link had never been so severed. Dean kept reaching out, and finding nothing.   
“Dean,” Cas said sharply.   
Dean came out of his reverie panting and shaking.  
“Come here,” Cas pulled Dean into the tiny motel bathroom. He sat Dean on the edge of the tub. Cas spun away and turned on the sink tap.  
“Cas,” Dean croaked. “What did they do to him?”  
Cas ignored the question. He ran a hand towel under the water and passed it to Dean. “Go help him.”  
Dean obediently took the cloth and went back to Sam’s side. Bobby spared him a glance as Dean sat on the corner of the bed by Sam’s head. Dean hesitated, unsure where to start. He dragged the cloth over Sam’s face, wiping the sweat from his brow. The blood on his chin did not come away easily. Drips of pink water trickled down Sam’s throat. Sam twitched. His eyes opened.  
“Hey,” Dean set the cloth aside, despite only getting half the job done.  
“Hey,” Sam’s voice was wrecked. Dean’s heart wrenched thinking of all the reasons he might have screamed himself hoarse.  
“You scared us, boy,” Bobby said.  
“Where are you hurt?” Dean asked anxiously.  
“It’s not my blood.” Sam’s voice cracked.   
Cas sucked in a breath from the doorway. “Oh Sam,” Cas breathed, eyes fixed on the younger Winchester.  
Sam squirmed under his scrutiny.  
“What?” Dean had to stop himself from shaking Cas. “What?”  
“They gave you demon blood?” Cas asked Sam.  
Sam gave a short nod.   
“What does that mean? Sam?”   
Cas rubbed a hand over his face. “It all makes sense now. Ms. Lyle, the demons’ obsession with you, the prophesy…”  
“It doesn’t make sense to me!” Dean clenched his fists in his lap.  
Cas came over to stand at the foot of the bed. “Angels are hard to kill, Dean. Even fledglings. But they can be changed. Warped.”  
A sob raked Dean’s throat.  
“It gets worse,” Cas sighed. “Angels can be made human. And humans can be made into demons.”  
Dean rocketed to his feet. “No, please-,”  
Cas pushed him gently back down. “He’s not a demon, Dean. He’s still human.”  
“But he’s not an angel. How…” Dean’s thoughts were in tatters.   
“They told me what they were doing,” Sam said. He struggled to sit up. “They called me the Boy King. They were going to turn me into a demon. Like Lucifer. A demon who used to be an angel to rule Hell.”  
Cas nodded. “There is a prophesy about the King of Hell.”  
“How do we know the prophesy isn’t about Crowley?” Dean argued.  
Cas shook his head. “The true King of Hell is a fallen angel. Crowley never was.”  
Sam studied his hands in his lap. “They chose me for this.”  
***  
Dean couldn’t sleep. He sat like a wraith in the dark. Sam slept, exhaustion holding him captive.   
Cas stood by the door, arms crossed. At midnight he suddenly wrenched the door open and stalked out. Dean startled. He leaped up and followed the angel.  
“Where are you going?’ Dean hissed as he shut the door silently behind him.  
Cas stopped, but he didn’t turn. The street light glowed like a halo over his dark hair.  
“Need I remind you that then entire force of Heaven is after me. Contrary to what you seem to think, you are not the center of the universe.”  
Dean marched up and grabbed Cas by the shoulder. “Sam needs help. And you’re going to walk away?”  
“I thought you didn’t trust me?” Cas challenged with a tip of his chin.  
Dean shoved aside a flush of guilt. “This is an all hands on deck kind of situation, you know?”  
“No, Dean. I don’t know. I am older than your precious humans’ entire species. I’m tired. I’m useless. I’m ready to fly to Saturn and wait out the coming destruction.”  
Dean’s horror.  
“But,” Cas said, turning away. “At the moment I am going to go see what I can discover about demon blood. Perhaps this is not as hopeless as it seems.”  
Cas tensed to go. Dean snagged his sleeve.  
“Cas, wait. What deal did you make with Crowley?”  
Cas levelled an acerbic glare on Dean’s offending hand. “It’s none of your concern.”  
Cas vanished in an invisible flutter of wings.  
Cold seeped through Dean’s bones. He stood alone for a long time before going back into the motel room.  
He threw himself back in his chair with his thoughts boiling, a turbulent mess of anger, fear, and anxiety. He watched Sam sleep, oblivious to the turmoil.  
Sam sat up with a gasp. Dean knocked his chair over in his haste to get to his side. “Hey, you’re okay. You’re with me. You’re good.”  
Sam swallowed hard enough that Dean heard it in the dark. “Dean,” he said shakily. “My wings…”  
Dean’s heart howled for Sam.   
“They waited for my wings to finish growing in,” Sam whispered. He shuddered. “The demon blood, it’s like acid. It burned my wings right off.” He took a shaky breath. “Everything hurts, Dean. Is this what being human feels like?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“Right,” Sam scoffed a laugh. “You get to keep your angel status.”  
Dean frowned. “What’s that?”  
“Nothing,” Sam snapped. “It’s just… All I ever wanted was to live up to what you are. Everything came easy to you; the wings, the telepathy, the mojo Cas is teaching you. I had to struggle for any of it.”  
“That’s not true-,”  
“It is, Dean!” Sam’s voice rose. “And now I know why. I was never supposed to be an angel. I was always going to be this, this freak!”  
Dean cast a worried glance at Bobby’s bed. The lump under the covers didn’t move, but Dean doubted Bobby was sleeping through Sam’s yelling.   
“You are not a freak,” Dean said slowly. “You are my brother, no matter what. Nothing changes between us, got it?”  
“How can you say that?” Sam whispered. “How can you know what’s inside me and still think I’m worth anything?”  
“Because you’re my family, dammit!” Dean lowered his voice. “There is nothing inside you that isn’t Sam.”  
“Then that’s worse.” Sam rolled over and pulled the covers up to his chin. Dean stared at the silhouette of his hunched shoulders.  
He waited until the first rays of sunlight touched the motel room curtains, and then he left. The lock clicked behind him.


	21. Negotiations

“Where would he go?” Sam asked for the millionth time.   
Bobby scrubbed a hand over his beard. Dean wasn’t answering his phone. He dialed again anyways. It went straight to voicemail. The battery was probably dead.  
Sam paced the motel room. Bobby was dizzy just watching him. The shag carpet was going to be worn to threads before Dean got back.  
“Maybe he went for coffee,” Bobby suggested for the hundredth time.  
“Without saying anything? Not even a note?” Sam turned another circuit of the cramped room.  
Bobby watched him. A gulf as wide as Hell had opened between them. It was about time he tried bridging the gap.  
“How are you doing, really?” Bobby asked.  
Sam shrugged, his shoulders staying hunched around his ears. “I dunno. I feel… sore. Achy, like all my joints are loose. But I’ll make it.”  
“I know you will,” Bobby said. “You’re my son, you’re tougher than nails.”  
A horn honked. Bobby frowned as a monster engine roared. Sam ran to the window. He whooped suddenly and burst out the door as the sound of the engine growled louder. Bobby followed slower, inwardly cursing the stupidity of teenage boys.   
Dean roared into the parking lot in the Impala. The huge, nasty grill shone, and the black paint practically sparkled as the engine growled. It was a beautiful machine.   
The car skidded to a halt on the asphalt. Dean leaned out the driver’s window. “Ain’t she something?”  
Sam smoothed his hands over the chrome detail on the passenger’s side. “Not bad.”  
“Not bad? My Baby would crush any foreign sports car.”  
“Yeah, sure, Dean,” Sam piled his tall self into the car. “Just drive.”  
Dean honked the horn and waved at Bobby. He waved back, suppressing the smile fighting to break through.   
***  
The Impala growled down the highway. Dean pressed her to her limits, flooring the gas. Trees and fields rushed by in a blur. Sam rolled down his window to shout into the wind. Dean grinned. His heart swelled. This was all he needed; just two lanes of asphalt and a motor. Finally, he turned the car around and headed back towards town.  
“What happened to your wings?” Sam burst the bubble of silence enveloping them.   
Dean shifted in his seat. “Cas has been teaching me to focus my energy. I figured out how to hide them myself.” He glanced at Sam, “Now I don’t need Cas if I want to go out in public.”  
“What do we do now?” Sam asked quietly. He twisted his hands in his lap.  
“We keep doing what we always do. Fight monsters. Stay away from angels.”  
“I thought Zachariah had a plan for you?”  
“Yeah,” Dean sighed. “Well, he can shove it. I don’t want to sit on a cloud and play a harp all day.”  
“Isn’t Heaven where we belong, though?” Sam asked. “I mean you do anyways. Me-,”  
“You’re still an angel.” Dean interrupted. “At heart, or whatever. We’ll fix you.”  
“Yeah, sure,” Sam groused. “I’m hungry,” he suddenly changed the subject. “Are humans always this hungry?”  
“Burgers?” Dean suggested.  
“Yeah. And pie.”  
“Now we’re talking,” Dean pressed down on the gas.  
The little diner was bustling. Sam and Dean ordered and sat in a booth by the window. Sam ate like a man starved. Worry gripped Dean’s gut. He’d never really thought much about food beyond how much he enjoyed the taste. Angels, even fledglings, didn’t need much sustenance.   
Dean finished his burger and shoved back his chair. “I need to stretch my wings.”   
“Very funny,” Sam said over his second milkshake.  
Dean smirked and sauntered to the restroom. He pushed through the door and froze. He wasn’t in a crusty diner washroom. A dark cement walled room greeted him with junk filled shelves on all sides. Dean turned to run back the way he came. The door had vanished.   
“Hello, Dean.”  
Zachariah stood in the center of the room, his hands in his pockets.  
Dean’s heart rate kicked up a few notches.  
“Zach,” Dean answered warily. “I’ve got a cellphone, you know. You could just call me.”  
Zachariah smirked, “I need a minute of your time, Dean.”  
“Where are we?” Dean studied the eclectic collection of tools and machinery on the dusty shelves.   
“Some basement in Delaware, I believe.”  
“Delaware?” Dean sputtered. “I’m supposed to be in Wyoming.”  
“No, Dean, you are supposed to be in Heaven,” Zachariah snapped.  
Dean shook his head. “Man, I’m not the guy you want to run an army.”  
“Oh, you’ll join us, Dean,” Zachariah said. “But this visit is to discuss Sam.”  
“Sam?” Dean’s stomach dropped.  
“You weren’t supposed to rescue him.” Zachariah said. His calmness sent a chill down Dean’s spine. “You’ve ruined everything.”  
Dean’s head spun. “You told me you had a plan to save him.”  
“Heavens, no. We have a plan. That plan includes your brother becoming a hellspawn. And you commanding Heaven.”  
“I don’t understand.”  
“How could you? You’ve been raised by mud monkeys.”  
“Watch your mouth,” Dean snarled.  
“You and Sam are supposed to be the greatest adversaries ever.”  
Dean felt like someone was dropping bricks on his head. He couldn’t process all this new information. “What?”  
“Heaven verses Hell, starring two brothers slaughtering each other on the battlefield.” Zachariah spread his arms wide. “Come on, haven’t you been paying attention? Cain and Abel, Pharaoh and Moses, Romulus and Remus, Claudius and Hamlet Senior. It goes on and on, written into the fabric of humanity. Precursors to the End.”  
“I won’t kill Sam,” Dean said firmly.  
Zachariah met him with determination. “You will if it’s the only way to stop him destroying the world.”  
“No,” Dean shook his head. “He won’t.”  
“Let me spell it out for you,” Zachariah spit. He raised his hands and intoned. “As it is written, The King of Hell will burn the world in fire. And only the Righteous One will be able to stop the bloodshed. They will meet as brothers, and one shall slay the other. Then Heaven shall reign on earth for a thousand years.”  
“You’re talking about the Apocalypse,” Dean gasped.  
“What did you expect?” Zachariah asked, adjusting his suit. “We were hunting the ends of the earth for some lost fledglings? Who cares about a couple of abandoned puppies? No, you and your brother have been destined since birth for these roles. There is no one else who can do it.”  
“It being the End Times.”   
Zachariah shrugged. “Call it what you will. The big showdown. The last stand. It’s all the same. And it all ends the same; with you defeating your brother and Heaven triumphing over Hell once and for all.”  
“I don’t think so.”  
Zachariah took a threatening step forward, “Come again?”  
Dean lifted his chin, “I ain’t leading any angel army, and Sam sure as Hell isn’t on board with the demons.”  
“Eh. Semantics.” Zachariah brushed Dean’s words away like lint off his suit. “Whether you like it or not, the end will happen. And it will happen as it is written.”  
“Well then strap in, ‘cause we’re throwing out the book.”  
Zachariah was in his face with angelic speed. “Listen here, you little maggot. You’re either going to say yes, or I’m going to tear you a cosmic new one.”  
Dean’s heart stopped. He clenched his jaw and smirked. “Eat me.”  
Zachariah took a sobering breath. “Fine. Let’s see how you feel if we add a little sweetener to the pot.” He snapped his fingers. Sam appeared suddenly behind Zachariah’s shoulder.  
“Sam!”  
“Dean? What’s going on-?”  
“Hush,” Zachariah lifted a finger to his lips. Sam buckled, a gasp spilling from his mouth.   
“Leave him alone!” Dean shouted. Sam crumpled into a ball on the floor, clutching his chest.  
“Now. Where were we?” Dean had to tear his eyes from Sam to focus on what Zachariah was saying. “Oh yes. Either you agree to my offer, or we see how fragile Sam is as a human.”  
Sam made a sound that gutted Dean to the core.   
“Bastard,” Dean spat.   
Zachariah hummed and snapped his fingers again. Blood splattered the floor under Sam.  
The fire of Dean’s anger drowned in icy fear. The smug douchebag would kill Sam, Dean had no doubts about that. “Stop.  
Zachariah cupped a hand around his ear, “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you. Was that a yes?”  
“No,” Sam’s weak cry shattered Dean’s resolve. “Dean, don’t do it.”  
“Fix him first,” Dean demanded.  
Zachariah sucked at his teeth, considering. Every moment he deliberated was shards of ice in Dean’s stomach. “You say yes, then I put your pathetic excuse for a brother back together.”  
“Please-,” Dean started.  
“Oh, you don’t like it? How about this?” Zachariah lifted his hand to snap his fingers.  
“Wait!” Dean lunged forward. “Stop it, damn you. I’ll do it.”  
Zachariah lowered his hand with a smirk. “Now was that so hard? Everybody’s happy.”  
“Except you,” Sam croaked. Dean and Zachariah moved as one to look at Sam. The puddle of blood under Sam was now smeared into a complicated configuration. Zachariah’s eyes widened in horror. Sam slammed his hand down on the angel banishing sigil. Dean threw his arms up to shield his eyes from the blinding light as Zachariah disintegrated.   
Dean scraped his knees on the floor in his haste to get to Sam.   
Sam coughed, shoving himself up to sitting. Blood dribbled down his chin. The same fear that had gripped him in Hell latched onto Dean at the sight of blood on Sam’s face.   
“Are you good?” Dean’s hands fluttered over Sam, searching for more hurts.  
“I’m fine,” Sam wiped the blood on his sleeve, smudging a horrible red streak across his face. “He’ll be back. We have to go.”


	22. Close Call

Dean and Sam struggled their way out of the basement Zachariah had trapped them in. The warehouse lot was overrun with weeds and trash. On the edge of the property, a black car gleamed.  
“No way!” Dean whooped and ran up to the Impala.   
“Why would Zach bring your car here? ” Sam asked as he approached warily.  
“Who cares?” Dean ran a hand over the hood. “We’ve got wheels. We can drive home.”  
Sam made a face. “We’re three days from where we left Bobby.”  
“Then we better get going.”  
Sam and Dean bundled themselves into the car. Dean tossed Sam a rag. Sam used the rear-view mirror to help him wipe the blood from his face as they sped off.   
The grungy city fell away into open roads lined with trees, and then into fields of yellow canola as far as the eye could see. Dusty September blew by as combines and farmers worked to get their crops off the golden acres.  
Around hour six of their drive Sam suddenly piped up. “I don’t feel so good.”  
Alarmed, Dean raked eyes up and down Sam. Sam pulled his long legs up to curl into a ball.  
“You’re not going to puke, are you? If you yack in my car, you’re walking.”  
“Thanks a lot, Dean,” Sam curled tighter around his stomach.   
An almighty thunder roared from Sam’s belly. Dean’s wide eyes found Sam’s saucer sized gaze. They both burst out laughing.   
“You’re hungry,” Dean wiped the tears from his eyes.   
“I’ve never been this hungry,” Sam giggled.  
“There’s a truck stop a couple miles ahead.”  
They pulled into a greasy excuse for a gas and sip. Half the pumps had smudged hand written ‘Out of Order’ signs flapping in the wind. Dean got out of the car and wrinkled his nose at the crusted windows and peeling paint.   
“We could wait. Find some place nicer.”  
Sam slammed the car door. “If I wait any longer to eat, I am going to waste away. Then I’ll come back and haunt your car for all eternity so that your radio only plays Celine Dione.”  
“Okay, geez. Cool off, will ya?” Dean led the way into the crummy store.  
Their entrance knocked a decades’ worth of rust off the bell over the door. The pimply kid behind the counter looked up with so much surprise Dean had to double check his wings weren’t showing. He gave the kid a tight smile and led the way to the food aisle.  
Sam suddenly buckled beside a shelf of energy drinks. Dean reached for him in alarm. Sam waved him off, clutching at his temple.  
“It’s just a headache.”  
Dean frowned. “Angels don’t get headaches.”  
“Well I’m not an angel anymore, am I?” Sam snapped.  
Dean let it slide. He scowled at the selection of dusty ravioli cans and packaged cookies. He glanced up. The cashier was still staring. “Pick something will you? That kid’s giving me Dahmer vibes.”  
Sam grabbed a handful of assorted snacks and they made their way to the counter. The cashier rang them through. Dean fumbled for his wallet.  
“Do you need a bag, Mr. Winchester?”  
Dean’s gaze snapped up. The kid’s eyes flashed black. Dean lurched for the demon blade in his jacket.  
An invisible force hit him in the chest and sent him flying. Dean crashed through a display of washer fluid and toppled to the floor.   
The demon stepped out from behind the counter. He buried his fist in Sam’s collar. Sam squawked, struggling in its grasp. Dean groaned, his head spinning.  
“Who would’ve thought,” the demon grinned. “That this boring crossroads post would have landed me the Winchester boys? You just waltzed right in, didn’t you?”  
Dean struggled to his feet. He was too far away for the knife to be any good. He had a gun in his waistband, but the bullets would be useless. “Let go of him.”  
The demon pouted dramatically, “Oh, Dean. Don’t be a party pooper. You know Sam has to go back to the Basement. He’s got to finish his treatment.”  
Sam landed an elbow in the demon’s ribs. It didn’t so much as flinch.   
“Play nice,” It snarled, shaking Sam like a rag doll.  
Dean grabbed his pistol and cocked it at the demon’s head.   
The demon’s grin widened. “You can’t kill me with that.”  
“I’m not trying to,” Dean pulled the trigger.  
The bullet slammed into the demon’s shoulder, knocking it off balance. Sam twisted out of its grip. Dean was already on top of the demon, unsheathing the demon blade and burying the knife in its chest. A wet gasp escaped as fiery light flashed through its bones. It fell limp.   
Sam wretched. Dean yanked the knife from the demon’s chest and knelt next to Sam. He was crouched on the floor, one hand clamped over his mouth.   
Dean touched his shoulder. Sam was burning up under his hand.   
“Come on,” Dean pulled Sam to his feet. Dean snagged a handful of the food on the counter on their way out the door.   
Dean half dragged Sam to the Impala. In the back of his head, a siren was screaming. Dead demons attract attention. They couldn’t afford that, not when Sam was powered down.  
“Stop,” Sam stumbled against the side of the car. “You gotta clean the knife.”  
“Later,” Dean snapped.  
Sam shook his head. “I can smell the blood. I’m gonna puke.”  
Perplexed, Dean fished in the backseat for a rag. He wiped the knife and tossed the bloody cloth in the dirt.  
“Better?”  
Sam nodded, one shaking hand still pressed against his mouth.  
Dean piled him in the car and raced around to his side. He took one last glance at the gas station. In the distance a dust cloud rose over the empty horizon. For just a second, it looked like a column of demon smoke.  
The paranoia Dean had inherited from Bobby had them speeding down the highway and then crisscrossing over several back roads. No one was tailing them. The rear-view mirror only reflected Dean’s worried expression.   
The pressure finally burst. “Are you going to tell me what all that was about? You can smell blood now?”  
“Demon blood,” Sam said miserably. “It stinks. Like burnt sulfur and charred meat.”  
“Yummy,” Dean sassed.  
“Don’t be a jerk.”  
Dean gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles cracked. “I’m going to murder every single demon in Hell. I mean it.”  
“Dean-,”  
“No. This is ridiculous. I feel like we’re running for our lives and spinning in circles. Hell wants you and Zach wants me and if we say no they’re just going to torch the planet anyways.”  
“What?”  
Dean pulled off the road. He wrenched the Impala into park and slammed his fists against the steering wheel. Sam watched him in silence. Dean let out a measured breath.  
“Zachariah told me I’d have to kill you.”  
He explained in broken starts what Zachariah had said. The Apocalypse. The big smackdown. How Sam’s kidnapping was part of the plan.  
Sam sat in stunned silence. Dean stared through the windshield at the twisted trees on the side of the road. The quiet stretched. Sam had always needed a long time to process, but he was starting to think he was in shock.   
“So, all of this is Heaven’s will? God wants me to be a monster?”   
“What? No!” Dean whipped around at Sam. “There is no God. He’s not running the show. It’s just a bunch of junkless angels being butt hurt about daddy running away. They’re following the only script they have left.”  
“How is that a bad thing?” Sam’s brow furrowed. “If God wrote the script aren’t we supposed to stick to it?”  
“No, Sam.” Dean had to take a deep breath. “There’s no such thing as Fate, or Destiny, or a Master Plan, okay? God left. He doesn’t get a say anymore. We make our own way.”  
A shrill cellphone chirp startled both Dean and Sam. Dean dug in the glovebox. An old emergency flip phone rattled away. Dean frowned at the number on the display.  
“It’s Cas.” He answered the phone. “Hello?”  
“Dean, where are you?” Cas’ gravelly voice was tinned and distant.   
“Somewhere in Ohio . Where are you?”  
Cas ignored the question. “Is Sam with you?”  
Dean glanced at Sam. Sam frowned. “Yeah. Why?”  
“I need to know exactly where you are.”  
“I don’t know man,” Dean leaned to peer through the windshield. “Somewhere off the interstate. Look, we just ran into a demon-,”  
“Dean, I don’t care about demons in gas stations.”   
Dean straightened. A tight feeling constricted his chest.   
“This is bigger that petty demon activity. I have… I have information.” The tiny pause burrowed a worm of doubt in Dean’s mind. He clenched the phone tighter to his ear.   
“Cas, what’s going on?”  
“I can’t say over the phone. Where can I meet you?”  
Dean glanced at Sam again.   
“Trap,” Sam mouthed. Dean nodded.   
“You know where we ganked that wendigo? We’ll be there in an hour.”   
“I’ll wait right here.” Cas hung up.  
Dean tossed the phone into the backseat with a curse.   
“What was that?” Sam asked.  
Dean clenched the steering wheel in his fists. “He knew about the gas station. We’re being followed.”  
“Cas has been caught,” Sam realised.   
Dean nodded stiffly, “Poor bastard.”  
“So what are we going to do?”   
Dean cranked the keys in the ignition. “We’re going to get him.”  
“What was thing about a wendigo?” Sam asked as Dean peeled onto the dirt road. “We’ve never hunted a wendigo in Ohio.”  
“Yeah, so whoever was listening in on that call will be on a wild goose chase. Or wendigo chase.”  
“You’re not funny.”  
“The point is, they’ll be distracted. We can sneak in and get Cas.”  
“We don’t know where he is.”  
“We know they’re close. They were at the gas station.”  
“That was thirty miles back. They could be anywhere.”  
“Cas said he’d wait right here. He figured we knew where he was.”  
The drive back to the gas and sip was tense. Silence reigned. Dean mulled over everything Cas had said, searching for the hidden meaning. Right here. Where was here? If he could only talk to Cas without anyone else hearing-.  
Dean slammed on the brakes. The car skidded on the old road. Sam shouted and braced himself against the dashboard.  
Dean threw the car in park. He wrenched the seat recliner and lay back, his mind racing.  
“What are you doing?” Sam yelped.  
“Angel radio,” Dean shut his eyes.  
“Oh,” Sam said quietly. “You’re going to talk to Cas?”  
“I’m going to try. Shut up.”  
Dean breathed deep and tried to slow his pedalling heart. He imagined Cas. In his head, a trench coat flapped in a breeze. Dark hair stuck up in perpetual bedhead. Blue eyes flashed with lightning. Wings as dark as Hell opened and slowly, so slowly, the blue glow of Grace edged the pinions and guided Dean forwards. Dean imagined his voice.  
“Dean.”  
The rich cadence was like the Impala’s tires over gravel.  
“Dean, you shouldn’t be doing this. Someone might hear.”  
“Shut up,” Dean thought projected. “I’m trying to save you. Where are you?”  
“Behind the gas station. In a house. But Dean-,”  
Dean opened his eyes. “I got him.”


	23. Fun and Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting. I've written myself into a corner folks :')

The structure behind the gas station could hardly be called a house. It looked like it had once done duty as a farm shed. Then a garage. And then a storm must have blown the roof off. Corrugated tin slapped haphazardly this way and that kept the rain out. No one had bothered to make the building look more like a house. It served its function to provide shelter. That was about all you could say for it.   
Dean and Sam approached warily.  
The shades were drawn in the single window.   
Dean frowned at the door. One entrance. His mind screamed “trap”.   
Dean withdrew the demon knife and passed it to Sam. He kept the Colt for himself.  
“Count of three,” he gripped the door knob. “One.. two…”  
A blinding light burst through the cracks in the door. A high screech punctured Dean’s ears. Sam yelled, gripping the sides of his head.   
Dean wrenched the door open and barreled inside. The dingy shack looked worse on the inside. Dust and decay crawled over the wood floor. A single chair and table dominated the room. The light and sound faded.   
Cas lay on the table, still as a corpse. A dark figure loomed over the angel, a knife in his hand. Dean raised the Colt.   
The gun flew from his fingers and clattered into a corner.   
The figure turned.  
“Crowley,” Dean growled.   
“Dean,” Crowley produced a handkerchief from thin air and wiped his blade. His eyes flashed red. “You’re interrupting.”  
Dean finally noticed the etchings in the floor around the table. Sigils carved into the wood.   
“What are you doing to him?” Dean took a menacing step forward.   
“Ah ah,” Crowley raised a finger. “Nothing he didn’t agree to. I’m only taking payment for our bargain.”  
Dean’s chest tightened.   
Sam suddenly charged into the room. He stopped short behind Dean.  
“Hello Sam,” Crowley said. “Fancy seeing you topside.”  
“Whatever you’re doing, stop,” Dean warned.  
“I’m already finished,” Crowley spun the blade in his fingers. It vanished. “Just waiting for the patient to wake up. Manners, you know.”  
A groan echoed from the table. Crowley turned to Cas.   
Something nudged the back of Dean’s hand. He reached back and Sam placed the demon knife in his fingers.   
Dean charged at Crowley’s back, the knife raised high. The demon sidestepped, but Dean swiped the blade and caught his arm.   
Crowley cursed, “Do you know how much this suit cost?”   
Dean swung again. Crowley flicked his fingers and Dean was lifted off his feet. He slammed into the wall, the knife skittering from his lax hand. Sam dove and scooped it up. Dean shook his head to clear to it.   
Sam attacked Crowley. The demon seemed amused, a light smirk dancing on his lips as he neatly sidestepped each of Sam’s strikes. Dean leapt up and tackled Crowley. It felt like hitting a cement truck. The demon kept his footing, but Dean locked his arms around Crowley, holding him fast. Sam struck. Crowley roared, rocking him and Dean off balance. The knife missed Crowley’s heart and tore through his shoulder.   
Crowley shook Dean off and backed into a corner. Sam and Dean advanced together.   
“This is the thanks I get?” Crowley pressed a hand to his dripping wound. “I bring wingless here back from Hell and you treat me like some, some demon!”  
“You are a demon,” Dean growled. “And we kill demons. Sam, finish him.”  
Sam didn’t move. He remained frozen on the spot, staring Crowley down.   
“Sam,” Dean glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Sam shook from head to toe. The knife rattled in his grasp.   
“Ah,” Crowley sighed. “I see there were some side effects from Hell after all.”  
“What does that mean? Sam!” Dean’s attention tore away from Crowley as Sam wavered. Dean grabbed his brother’s arm just as Sam’s eyes rolled back into his head. Dean choked on a cry as Sam dropped into his arms.  
“Let me know when you want answers,” Crowley said. He vanished.   
“Sam?” Dean patted his face. “Hey, man wake up!”  
“Dean?” The voice did not belong to Sam. Dean looked up. Cas sat up on the rickety table.   
“Dean, what happened?”  
“Sam,” Dean gasped as tears threatened to fall. “He’s hurt, Cas help.”  
Cas swung his legs off the table. He went to stand, but his legs gave out under him.  
“Cas?” Dean reached out for the angel. “What’s wrong? What did Crowley do?”  
“Now is not the time,” Cas swatted his hand away as he crawled closer. “What’s wrong with Sam?”  
“I don’t know,” Dean shook Sam’s shoulder carefully. Sam didn’t stir. “Okay,” Dean rallied his courage. “The car’s not far. You watch him, I’ll be right back.”  
“Dean, I don’t-,”  
“I’ll be right back,” Dean snapped. He grabbed the Colt from the floor on his way to door and tossed it to Cas. “Don’t let anything happen to him.”  
Dean’s mind raced as his feet flew across the gas station parking lot. What was going on with Sam? First he could smell demon blood and now he fainted when facing the King of Hell? And Cas… what kind of deal was Crowley talking about?   
Dean skidded to a stop beside the Impala. H threw himself in the driver’s seat and wrenched the keys in the ignition. The car rocketed off the pavement and over the dry grass.   
The door of the shack opened as Dean put the gear in park. Cas and Sam leaned against each other and wobbled down the steps to the car. Dean got out and took Sam’s arm from Cas. He looked the angel up and down. Cas’ skin was tinged grey and his eyes, always lightning blue in Dean’s mind, were dull.  
“You need a ride?”  
Cas lifted his head to meet Dean’s gaze. “That isn’t a good idea,” the angel sighed. “But yes, I haven’t the strength to go on by myself.”  
“Right,” Dean opened the passenger door for Sam and bundled him inside.   
“I’m fine,” Sam said quietly as Cas pulled himself into the backseat. “I’m just tired.”  
“Great, you can nap all the way to Bobby’s ‘cause I ain’t stopping anymore. There’s too many demons in this state.” Dean slammed his door and gunned the engine.  
The country roared passed. Dean waited until Sam was sleeping against the car window to glance in the rear view mirror.  
Blue eyes met his.   
“So?” Dean asked quietly. “What did Crowley want?”  
“Dean, I don’t wish to offend you, but to use a human phrase, it’s none of your business.”  
“You called me,” Dean reminded him.  
“I shouldn’t have,” Cas broke eye contact.  
Dean refocused on the road. “You said you had information,” Dean finally said.  
“Angels have been following me for weeks,” Cas confirmed. “They know about Sam going to Hell. They know you rescued him. They are not happy.”  
“Newsflash, we know that too,” Dean snapped. He lowered his voice as Sam stirred. “Cas, you didn’t call to tell me what I already know.”  
Castiel was quiet for a long minute. Dean glanced at him in the mirror again. The angel watched the fields going by.   
“Dean, the angels have planned to kidnap you.”   
“What?” Dean squawked. “When? How?”  
“Soon. I don’t know. Likely they need to find you first. You are still hidden from Heaven.”  
“Thank God.”  
“Don’t.”  
Dean chuckled, “Figure of speech, man. Thanks for the heads up.”  
“You’re welcome.” Cas shuffled to hunch himself against the window. He closed his eyes. In a second, soft snores rumbled from the backseat.  
“Unbelievable,” Dean muttered.   
Dean relented his no stopping rule after three hours. Mostly because he had to use the can.   
Dusk was sweeping over the tops of the trees when Dean pulled the car into a roadside motel off the interstate. He killed the engine.  
“Stay together,” Dean warned, levelling a finger at Cas. “Neither of you is firing on four cylinders and I can’t be everywhere at once.”  
“Dean,” Sam groaned. “We both just want to go to sleep. Lay off.”  
Dean got them situated in a room. The walls were draped in weird tri-coloured elephants, on the TV, on the curtains, in the bathroom. But at least there were three beds. Dean took first watch.  
After Sam was asleep, Dean called Bobby. He took his phone and shut the motel door silently behind him. Leaning against the frame, he dialled home.   
“What?” Bonny answered on the third ring.  
“Sam’s not doing so hot.”  
“Is that why you called me in the middle of the night?”  
Dean scoffed, “We both know you weren’t sleeping.”  
“Who said anything about sleep? It’s the principle of the thing.”  
Dean smiled softly at the asphalt under his boots. Just hearing Bobby’s grouching settled the shifting anxiety in his gut.   
“Tell me about Sam,” Bobby said.  
Dean kicked at a pebble. “He passed out during a fight.”  
“Is he hurt?” Concern washed over Bobby’s voice.  
“No,” Dean corrected. “I don’t think so. But that’s not all. Bobby, he can smell demon blood.”  
Bobby sucked in a breath. “That’s… unusual. But not life or death, is it?”  
“No,” Dean rubbed his weary eyes. “I guess not. But what if there’s more?”  
“Then we’ll deal with it,” Bobby said.  
Dean was quiet. His instincts screamed that there was something he was missing. Something Bobby was overlooking.  
“Look, Dean,” Bobby said. “I don’t want to dismiss you, but Sam’s been through a lot. Give him some time to adjust.”  
“Yeah, okay,” Dean sighed. “Good night Bobby.”


	24. Motel Glory

Dean watched the sun come up from his seat by the motel window. Sam and Cas snored in stereo from the two single beds. On the table in front of Dean lay the Colt and the demon knife. 

Cas snuffled awake just as the first rays of light peeked through the curtains patterned with tusks and trunks. He joined Dean at the window in the chair opposite. Dean glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. 

“You okay, Cas? You slept a long time.”

“I’m fine,” Cas covered a yawn.

Dean frowned. “I don’t want to pry, Cas, but something feels off about you. You sure you’re alright?”

Cas turned his stern expression on Dean. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“Right,” Dean huffed. “So now what? Are you sticking around?”

“No, I don’t expect so,” Cas pushed back his chair. “In fact, I need to leave at once.”

“Woah, now?” Dean protested, standing too.

“Yes. Was I not clear?” Cas snapped.

Dean frowned. Cas’ bluntness wasn’t unusual, but the sharp edge to his voice was new.

Cas went to the door. He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Dean, I may be unreachable for a while.”

Dean started. “What? I- we need you right now. Sam needs help.”

“I am aware,” the angel’s shoulders hunched. “It is unavoidable.” He opened the door. “I’m sorry, Dean.” The door clicked shut behind Cas.

Dean slumped back into his seat by the window. He told himself he wasn’t going to watch Cas walk away. The angel would have vanished already anyways. Dean wasn’t a thirteen-year-old girl staring wistfully after his crush. He wasn’t going to look. 

Dean gave up. He twitched the ugly curtain aside. Cas was almost across the parking lot. His trench coat swished around his knees as he looked both ways and crossed the street. Dean lost sight of him when Cas turned around the side of a building. 

Dean frowned. Why would Cas walk? He’d never thought the angel enjoyed mobility that much.

Sam snorted awake, jostling Dean from his thoughts.

“Hey, slugger,” Dean grinned at Sam’s incredible bed head. Half of it stood up and the other side plastered itself to his skull. “How are you feeling?”

“Hungry,” Sam said. 

“There’s a diner down the street.”  
*** 

Sam tucked into a stack of pancakes with a side of bacon and eggs. Dean watched and worried. His mug of black coffee sat neglected. 

“Stop staring,” Sam mumbled through a full mouth. 

“Sorry,” Dean focused his gaze on the local paper on the sticky tabletop. He leafed through, searching intently for anything bizarre or macabre. Their last case felt like   
eons ago. No ghosts, no shotguns, no hunting. Dean felt like he was missing a limb sometimes. Not that this whole thing with Hell and angels hadn’t been… similar. But he hadn’t been in control. The whole experience left his head spinning and an ulcer growing in the pit of his gut. Dean longed for an easy salt and burn. 

Sam ordered a second plate of pancakes and eggs. Dean and the waitress both blinked in surprise. 

“Hey, slow down. There’s two more meals in the day,” Dean joked. 

“I’m hungry,” Sam snapped. 

“Uh huh,” Dean rubbed his hands in anxious circles.

“For the love of-,” Sam threw down his fork. “I’m fine, Dean. Really. I’m peachy. Stop fretting like a mother goose.”

“Goose?” Dean tipped his head. 

“Rooster, hen, whatever,” Sam returned his attention to his plate.

Dean sipped his cold coffee. When Sam had practically licked his plate clean, they paid their bill. Dean didn’t miss the way Sam lingered in the seat, glancing at his plate. 

The Impala sitting in the elephant motel parking lot called like a siren. Dean twirled his keys in his hand. “Where to?”

“I don’t know,” Sam leaned against the passenger’s side. “Dean, I don’t feel so good.”

“I told you not to eat so much. Hey!” Dean shouted as Sam suddenly collapsed.

Dean darted around the car. Sam splayed on the asphalt, eyes closed. Dean knelt and frantically laid hands on Sam’s clammy forehead. He was burning up. 

Sam blinked brown eyes open. “Dean,” he croaked.

Dean hushed him. “Stay still. What happened?”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know. I’m going to be sick.”

“Good thing we didn’t check out of our room yet,” Dean helped Sam gingerly sit up. 

Dean draped Sam’s arm over his shoulder and they hobbled into the cursed elephant room. 

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Dean said as he deposited Sam on the bed. Sam laid back and curled his knees to his chest.

Dean hurried to the bathroom and ran a towel under cold water. He came back and laid the cloth over Sam’s fevered forehead. 

Sam groaned and tried to wiggle away. 

“Hey, c’mon, work with me here,” Dean wheedled. “Where does it hurt?”

“I’m so hungry. All the time,” Sam whined. He wrapped his arms around his middle. His pale face was hollow. 

“What do you need?” Dean asked desperately. “Tell me, I’ll find it for you.”

“He needs this,” A voice said.

Dean whirled around. The demon Crowley leaned against the doorframe with a vial dangling from his fingers.

“How did you-?”

“Please,” Crowley scoffed. “As if your little hex bags could keep me away. Actually, I followed that little something I leant you. I’d like it back.”

Crowley tossed the vial. Dean caught it, dumbfounded. Viscous red liquid clung to the sides of the vial.

“Is this blood?” Dean gasped.

“Quite right,” Crowley said. “Grade A demon blood. Just what the doctor ordered.”

Sam whined incoherently. 

“No,” Dean clenched the vial in his fist. “I know what it’ll do to him. I’m not giving Sam demon blood!”

“Fine, let him die,” Crowley waved a hand.

Dean’s stomach lurched.

“Oh, didn’t anyone tell you?” Crowley smirked. “Nobody can quit demon blood cold turkey. You’ll have to wean him off it.” He glanced at the expensive black watch on   
his wrist. “Now, I believe I said I wanted something from you. If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t have anything-,”

“The key to the Cage, you lumbering buffoon,” Crowley snapped.

Dean dug into his pocket as if in a trance. He’d forgotten all about the four interlocking rings. He drew it out and offered it on an open palm. It zoomed across the room into Crowley’s hand without the demon even blinking. 

“Pleasure doing business. Ta,” Crowley turned to go.

“Wait!” Dean stood. “What about the demon blood?”

“First dose is on the house,” Crowley said. “The rest is up to you.” 

The demon vanished. 

Dean stared at the vial in his hand. He couldn’t do this. It would poison Sam. If he didn’t do this, Sam would die. 

Dean stared at Sam’s limp form. His brother didn’t so much as stir. The stillness of Sam’s body jolted Dean from his indecision. He clasped the vial of blood and   
moved to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. 

He leaned against the sink, the vial squeezed tight in his fist. 

Dean closed his eyes. “Cas, I need you. Now.” 

Nothing happened. Dean cracked one eye open. The room remained devoid of angels in trench coats.

“Please,” Dean begged. “Sam might be dying. I need your help.”

Dean caught his reflection in the mirror. He was white as a ghost. A hiccupped sob escaped his lips. 

He spun the tap and let the water run to cover the sound. 

What was he supposed to do? If Dean gave Sam the demon blood, Sam would never forgive him. He wasn’t in his right mind right now. On the other hand, if Crowley was right, and Dean didn’t give Sam what he needed, Sam would die.

Dean looked up at the mirror. He set his jaw. Sam wasn’t allowed to die. Not on Dean’s watch.

Dean cupped some cold water in his free hand and splashed it over his stinging eyes. 

He wiped his face on his sleeve as he exited the bathroom. Sam was as unresponsive as before. Dean had to stop himself from checking if Sam was breathing. 

Dean went over to his duffle bag on the other bed and pulled out a bottle. Whiskey was the only thing Dean could think of that would have a strong enough taste to cover the blood. If at all possible, Sam would never know what he’d drank.

The motel had a set of cheap glasses on the night stand. Dean turned his back on Sam and half filled one with whiskey. He glanced over his shoulder. Sam was still out. Dean surreptitiously uncorked the vial in his hand. The red blood sloshed. Dean wrinkled his nose. His hands shook. He took a steadying breath.

“Cas if you’re listening, this is your last chance to stop me,” he whispered. He tipped the vial over the glass. A few drops hit the whiskey and vanished in the amber swirl. 

Dean blinked, suddenly realising he didn’t know how much blood to give Sam. The whole vial? Just a drop? His pounding heart couldn’t take it. Dean measured half the blood into the cup and re-corked the vial. If Sam didn’t improve, he’d give him more.

Dean stuffed the vial in his pocket and turned to Sam. He brought the poisoned glass over to his brother. 

“Hey, buddy, can you sit up for me?” Dean asked, nudging Sam’s shoulder. Sam groaned, rolling away from the contact. 

Dean sighed. This was going to be harder than he hoped. Dean set the glass on the nightstand. He pulled at Sam’s shoulders, maneuvering him into a half-seated position. Sam didn’t struggle so much as feebly pull at the hands moving him. The weakness of his limbs scared the life out of Dean. 

“Here,” Dean grabbed the glass of whiskey and held it to Sam’s lips. Glassy eyes stared Dean down. 

“C’mon,” Dean prompted, tipping the glass a bit more. Sam drank. He drank the whole thing. Dean patted his shoulder when the last drops disappeared. Sam slumped back down into his pillow. 

Dean sat at the end of his bed, empty glass hanging from his lax fingers. Now what? How long until Sam improved? The anxiety clawed at Dean’s guts, churning in waves. He mumbled to Cas under his breath, praying for a sign, a miracle, anything.

Sam woke with a gasp. Dean almost fell off the bed. 

“What happened?” Sam ran a hand through his sweaty hair. 

“What do you remember?” Dean asked, hiding the glass behind his back.

Sam’s brow furrowed. “The car. I… I fell?”

“Yeah, and then?” Dean prompted.

Sam shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t remember anything else.”

Dean breathed a guilty sigh of relief. “Well, you were out for a few minutes,” he lied. “I think you have the flu or something.”

Dean glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye. Sam looked better by half already. The clammy drips of sweat vanished, his cheeks lost their pallor, and his eyes focused. Dean’s hands shook with the rush of relief. 

“We should hole up until you’re better,” Dean said. 

“What? No,” Sam jumped up. Dean’s lungs had an involuntary seizure. 

“I feel great,” Sam said. He snatched up his bag and started stuffing his things in it. “Let’s go. I can’t stand this motel room. I’m going to dream of pink elephant  
parades for a week.”

Dean stared, mouth hanging open. “You were just out like a light,” Dean stammered. “Slow down.”

Sam brushed the concern away. “I’ll rest in the car. Let’s go.”

Dean followed Sam on autopilot, gathering his things into his bag. He hadn’t noticed the empty glass still clenched in his fist. Just before they left, Dean ran into the bathroom and rinsed the glass out in the sink. He imagined the residue of demon blood cloying in the pipes. A nasty virus sitting in the U-bend, waiting to pounce. 

Dean turned his back and walked out.

The Impala roared out of the parking lot. The open road beckoned. If Dean never saw elephant print curtains again, he’d count himself lucky. 

Sam rolled down the window and closed his eyes. A small smile spread over his face. Dean had to look away to watch the two-lane highway being eaten by the Impala’s tires.

So, the demon blood worked. Sam felt better now. But how long until he had another episode? Dean couldn’t count on Sam not remembering every time Dean had to feed him blood. Dean needed a plan. And he needed help.


	25. Cloudy with a Chance of Angels

Dean pulled the Impala over in a wide field for a night. Sam was already asleep, curled in the backseat.

Dean got out, shutting the door as silently as possible. He climbed onto the hood of the car and lay back. The black night opened its arms to engulf him, tiny pinpricks of stars expanding forever out into the abyss of space. Galaxies swirled, turning in their endless dance. 

Dean picked a bright star and focused hard. The twinkling light a million billion miles away filled his vision. Dean let go of everything else but its light. All of his worries fell away. Sam, the demon blood, angels, Heaven, and Hell, all dissolved in the glow of the star. 

He grounded himself with the feeling of cold metal under his body and a breeze over his face. He held onto those sensations like bracing his feet on the edge of a river. Finally, Dean cast his mind out like a lure on a fishing line.

He searched for Cas, like he had by that gas station in the middle of nowhere. Dean reached for dark hair, blue eyes, a backwards tie. He didn’t feel anything. It didn’t worry him. He waited, sifting through the many interactions he’d had with Cas, watching them like a movie on mute. He waited for the pricking of connection. 

Nothing. Concern crouched over his concentration. He should feel Cas, even if the angel wasn’t answering. His mind should brush against another consciousness. But there was only a void. A Cas shaped hole. It wasn’t as though Cas was standing with his back to him, it was as if Cas was no longer present in the room of the universe. 

Dean focused harder, pushing, shoving for his powers to find Cas. He should be able to extend his range all the way up Heaven and down into the depths of Hell. Cas wasn’t there. 

Dean blinked, breaking the connection. 

Something was wrong. 

“Hello Dean.”

Dean jolted up off the car. 

Zachariah stood in the dark, hands folded serenely.

“Where have you been, boy?” Zach asked in an even tone. Dean heard the restrained anger under the smooth veneer. 

Sam. Sam was in the car, asleep. Dean couldn’t let Zach take him. 

“How did you find me?” Dean sidestepped away from the Impala. 

Zach snorted. “You were practically screaming for your lost angel just now,” Zach adopted a prissy whine. “Cas!”

A muscle in Dean’s jaw twitched. Remember Sam, he told himself. 

“You want to talk?” Dean spread his arms. “Let’s talk.”

“Not here,” Zach said. He snapped his fingers.

“Wait!”

They were already somewhere else. Dean spun around. A grey desk, white walls, and fluorescent lights greeted him. It was the most boring office space ever.

Dean startled as Zach walked around the desk. On his back, four massive white plumes twice the size of Cas’ spread out in layers of power.

A brush against his shoulder surprised Dean. His own wings hung out, miniscule compared to the double rowed display Zach sported.

“How-?’

“This is Heaven, Dean,” Zach smirked. “Angels don’t hide here.”

Dean glanced again at the plain office. “I thought it would be more… more,” he finished lamely.

Zach snorted. “This is a liminal space. The rest of Heaven,” he gestured to the door. “Is far more impressive than you can imagine.”

Zach sat behind the desk. “Sit.”

Something knocked against the backs of Dean’s knees. He stumbled, falling into a hard plastic chair. 

A silver Newton’s cradle clicked away on the smooth surface between Zach and Dean. It was the only feature to the desk. Dean watched its steady swinging. Curious, he realised the balls weren’t just smooth metal. They were tiny globes, the continents etched into each sphere.

“Now,” Zach folded his hands. “You have been a very naughty boy, Dean.”

“Cut the crap,” Dean snarled. “You’re not my father.”

Zach laughed. “Neither is that charming hillbilly you claim as a relative.”

Dean bristled.

“No,” Zach continued. “Your real father has abandoned you. Abandoned us all. So, if God has left the building, then what are we, as his instruments, to do?”

Dean kept his eyes on the little globes clacking back and forth. “I guess world peace is out of the question?”

“On the contrary,” Zach leaned across the table. “We are aiming for the ultimate world peace. Never ending paradise. That was God’s ultimate plan. We intend to fulfill it for Him.”

Dean’s chair creaked as he shifted.

“Will you help us, Dean?”

“You make it sound like you’re planting daisies,” Dean looked up into Zach’s watery blue eyes.

“We are. In a metaphorical sense,” Zach smiled. It was a businessman’s smile, all grease.

“You can’t force me to do anything,” Dean said.

“Don’t be so sure,” Zach warned.

Dean’s patience snapped. “Let’s can the bull, Zach. You don’t care about the world. You hate humanity. You’re planning to wipe them out. Well, I’m not signing your dotted line to nuke the planet, got it?”

“It will come to pass whether you like it or not,” Zach said, still as calm as ever. “One way or another…”

The silver globes rattled. The far left swung. It collided with its neighbor. They exploded. Chunks of metal sprayed across the desk. The frame of the Newton’s cradle wobbled and toppled. The remaining globes detonated on impact with the grey desktop. 

A cold finger of fear ran down Dean’s spine.

Zach dusted the debris off the side of the desk. “There is only one ending.”

Dean moved. 

He leapt from his chair and rocketed at the door. Zach swore, dodging over the desk.

The concussive force of Zach’s wings flapping slammed into Dean. He turned the doorknob. The door wrenched open. 

Zach caught a handful of Dean’s feathers. Dean threw himself through the gap, yelping as he parted with several pinions.

Dean fell. Instead of emerging into a hallway or foyer, the door led to nothing but white.

Dean plummeted into pure light. His wings spread instinctively. Dean twisted, flapping to stay airborne. Up above, the door hung open. Zach leaned out.

Dean dove. He whistled through clouds that left no feeling on his skin. It was like the void of Hell, only light instead of darkness. 

A glint of metal was all that saved Dean from a broken neck. He lurched, trying to stop in time. Dean crashed into the ground, rolling in a heap. The white ground was the same as the white sky and the white clouds. There was no visible horizon. But a door stood in the middle of all the nothing. Its silver knob had caught Dean’s eye from above. He glanced over his shoulder. Zach hadn’t caught up yet. 

Dean twisted the silver knob and poked his head through the door. There was solid ground on the other side. It looked like an empty hallway. He stepped though. The door swung shut behind him. The hallway extended left and right with no variation to its white walls. Dean turned a slow circle. The door he’d come through vanished. 

“Oh, that can’t be good,” Dean muttered. He looked up and down the endless corridor.

“Now what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the ending written, finally. And it looks like it's coming sooner than I expected...


	26. Hunting Season

Heaven was a maze. Dean hit dead end after dead end. The identical polished white walls gave off their own effervescent glow. After ten minutes Dean had a headache forming behind his eyes. He turned left. He turned right. Dead end. He turned around. He went left then right, back the way he came. He hit a wall that hadn’t been there before. The hallways restructured themselves as he moved, Dean realised. He was being corralled.

Dean stopped and thought. He figured on two options. Try and fight the maze, maybe get lucky and find a way to slip through. Or follow the promptings of the walls and floors. Turn and face the inevitable. 

Well, Dean had never been one to do things the easy way. He turned his back on the path before him and turned left. 

“Dean?” Zach’s voice rang out through the pearly corridors. Dean ducked around a corner. 

“You can’t hide,” Zach said. He sounded nearer and farther at the same time. Like a tunnel. “This is Heaven. I’m in control here.”

“Like Hell,” Dean muttered. He moved, twisting through corner after corner. He counted the directions. Left, left, left. There was another left ahead. Dean moved right. 

Left, left, right. The compass in his head pointed North. It seemed as good a direction as any. Assuming Heaven used cardinal directions. 

“How do you get out of Heaven?” Dean mumbled to himself as he crept along. The pounding anvil behind his eyes was getting worse. How did angels leave Heaven? 

The answer stopped him dead in his tracks. They Fall. 

Dean hunkered in a corner to think for a second. Could he force himself to Fall? How did Lucifer get himself booted out? He disobeyed God. Well, considering Dean was driving 300 miles per hour in the opposite direction of the Great Plan, it seemed like that wasn’t enough. 

Dean patted his pockets, taking inventory of his assets. He had the demon knife. That wouldn’t stop a winged bastard, but maybe he could slow them down. His fingers closed around a vial in his jacket. 

Dean drew out the demon blood. He’d forgotten all about it. The red was appallingly dark in the glow of Heaven. Dean was pretty sure blood shouldn’t be kept in a pocket. It had started congealing in globs around the surface of the thick liquid. 

How do angels Fall? They become human. 

Demon blood had turned Sam human. Would the half vial be enough to sever Dean’s divine nature? Dean uncorked the vial.

Was he willing to do this to himself? What if there was another escape? What if there was a door around the next corner that led out of here? Somehow, Dean knew there wasn’t.

Dean’s tongue retreated to the back of his throat at the idea of swallowing the viscous contents. He tipped the vial. 

“Dean,” Zach’s voice startled Dean. A drop of blood fell from the vial. It splashed on the white tile. 

“Dean, I’m done playing games. Come out now,” Zach’s booming broadcast echoed up and down the corridors. 

Dean ignored it. His attention was glued to the stain of red, shocking against the ethereal white. The colour defiled the tile. Heaven wasn’t made for anything less than perfection. Dean had made a mess. 

“Come out and I promise we’ll just talk. No well-deserved punishments.”

A brain wave nearly bowled Dean over. He tipped the vial into his hand, smearing lukewarm blood over his fingers. He knelt. The sticky substance spread easily across the smooth floor. Dean frantically checked his memory as he hastily scrawled on the tile. 

“There you are,” Zach cast a shadow in the light of Heaven. 

Dean glanced up at him and grinned. 

He watched Zach’s confused face turn down to the sigil on the ground. 

“Catch you later,” Dean slammed his hand on the angel expelling sigil.

Burning light tore through Dean’s bones. His body jerked. Everything went black.

Sight came back with feeling. Dean’s lungs weren’t operating. It was a problem. 

Hearing took a moment to coalesce into sounds that made sense. Someone was yelling. 

Dean put an effort into opening eyes he didn’t know he’d closed. 

Sam stood over Dean. 

“What the hell?” Sam waved his arms. Behind him, the sky was black. Dean drew a breath. It burned in his ribs. He tried sitting up. The Impala sat exactly where he’d parked it for the night. 

Dean pulled himself to his feet. Zach was nowhere in sight. Dean wasn’t fooled to think he wasn’t nearby. They had to go. Now.

“What is going on, Dean?” Sam asked, raking a hand through his hair. “I woke up and you were crash landing.” 

Sam stopped, “Dean, you’re bleeding.”

Dean glanced down at his hands and swore. “It’s not mine,” the words escaped before he could stop them.

Sam stared in bewilderment. “Whose blood is it?”

Dean’s mouth opened and closed. His brain went blank.

Sam studied the red starting to flake off Dean’s palms. He choked, covering his face. “Is that… demon blood?”

“Sam,” Dean’s brain rebooted, “We don’t have time. Right now, we have to go, but I promise I’ll explain everything.” Once I think of a good lie, Dean said to himself.

“C’mon,” Dean nudged Sam towards the car. “We’re going to Bobby’s. If there’s one place that might keep the angels out, it’s Bobby’s panic room.”

Sam got in the car. Dean went around to the back of the Impala. He opened the trunk and rooted around for a rag. As he scrubbed the blood from his hands, his heart sank. What was he supposed to do about Sam’s condition now? Worse, what was he going to tell him? 

Dean tossed the rag in the trunk and slammed the lid. He had a long drive to figure out a lie that wouldn’t get anybody hurt.


	27. Panic Room Blues

The wreckage that had been Singer Salvage didn’t look much better from the outside than it had last time they’d been there. But Bobby had replaced the porch steps, scoured the stench of smoke out of the main floor, and fixed all the wiring in the house. The second floor remained sealed off for now. The house was habitable again.

Bobby greeted his boys with bear hugs and back slaps. 

“Where have you been wandering?” He asked, ushering them into the house.

Dean followed Bobby through to the kitchen. His stomach churned. There was so much he had to ask Bobby and so little he could say in front of Sam. 

Bobby offered Sam and Dean a beer. 

Sam toasted, chugging half the sweaty bottle. Dean took a sip and set his bottle on the counter.

“Bobby, we need to use your panic room.” 

Bobby glanced between Sam and Dean. “That might be a problem. There’s already someone rooming down there.”

Bobby led them into the basement. The view hatch in the iron door slid back to reveal a cot in the center of the room. A figure sat hunched with hands folded in front.  
The man lifted his head. Dean’s breath caught. It was Cas. 

“What the hell, Bobby?” Dean rounded on him. 

“He asked for it,” Bobby defended. “He turned up here two nights ago, saying he was in trouble and he needed to hide from angels. I offered him a place. He bolted himself in.”

Dean reached for the handle, intending to burst in and give Cas a piece of his mind.

“Don’t,” Cas’s face pressed against the hatch. “Dean, don’t open the door.”

“You got a lot of nerve,” Dean growled.

“Dean,” Sam put a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean shrugged it off. 

“Give us a minute,” Dean said without breaking eye contact with the angel. “I need to talk with Cas.”

Bobby and Sam’s footsteps retreated up the basement stairs. Dean waited until the door at the top creaked shut. 

“Where have you been?” Dean’s rage boiled over. “I’ve been praying to you. Sam is-,” Dean broke off. “We needed your help.”

“Dean, I am sorry,” Cas said. “I- I needed time. I’m not- I don’t hear angel radio down here.”

Dean snarled. “Why are you hiding in there like a coward? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I warned you I would be unreachable,” Cas reminded him. His calm tone infuriated Dean. The handle spun under his hands almost without his control. 

Dean threw the door open and stomped inside. The tiny room radiated silence. It felt like a blanket fell over Dean when he stepped across the threshold. He hadn’t realised how much effort he used to keep angel radio in the background of his head. Suddenly the buzz in his skull was gone. 

Cas retreated back as Dean bore down on him. It registered belatedly that Cas wasn’t wearing his trench coat. He was dressed in a white T-shirt and grey pajama pants. His bare feet made no sound in contrast to Dean’s heavy boots. The vulnerability somehow stoked Dean’s anger further.

“Sam is human. You know what the demons did to him.”

“Dean-,”

“Did you know demon blood is lethal?” Dean’s shout echoed in the bunker space, bouncing off the iron walls. 

Cas hung his head. “Yes, I knew.”

Dean clenched his fists to keep from hitting Cas. “But you didn’t say anything.”

“What would you have done?” Cas lifted his face to stare Dean down. “Would you poison your brother? Watch him turn into something worse than death?”

A muscle in Dean’s jaw twitched. Cas’ eyes widened. “You did it,” he breathed. “You gave Sam-,”

“Shut up,” Dean ground through gritted teeth. “You don’t get to judge me. Not after I prayed to you for help. If you had been there- If you’d stopped me-,” Dean fumbled. “I didn’t have a choice!”

Dean shook from head to toe with restrained rage. Cas stood still. So calm and collected in the face of Dean’s anger. The desire to pull back his arm and punch Cas made Dean’s head spin. 

“What did Sam say?” 

The wind rushed from Dean’s lungs. Guilt popped the bubble of his anger. “He doesn’t know.”

Cas lifted his eyes to the ceiling and muttered, “Is this what I left Heaven for?”

“Cas, please. You can’t tell him,” Dean begged. “How am I supposed to do this to him?”

Cas sighed. “You are far too human, Dean. I have seen this sort of deceit play out a million times over countless millennium. You assume that I care.”

Dean was stricken. “What is your problem with me, anyways? You show up, you help when it’s convenient, but when I ask a simple favour you pretend you don’t give a crap.”

“Don’t,” Cas snapped. There was more passion than Dean had heard in a long time from the angel. “Don’t presume to understand me. You are not an angel. Not really. You never were.”

Dean reeled, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Cas seemed to struggle with some part of himself. “You are not my brother. Not the way other angels are. Your creation was… bizarre.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I am attempting to explain.” Cas’ eyes flashed. “Stop interrupting.”

Dean held up his hands in surrender.

Cas turned away to pace the tight confines of the panic room, “You have to understand. There were no new angels made since before the Garden. Before your galaxy was even an idea in God’s head. For eons it was just us, the same angels always and forever. No more, no less. Then suddenly, a millennium after God abandoned us, a rumor. Heaven was making more angels. We would have another army. But some of us worried.” 

Cas stopped and faced Dean, “God was gone, so who was making angels? Why now? What for? And then the day came. And it was just you two. No army. No legion of new recruits. Just two baby brothers with no explanation.”

Cas tipped his head back. The yellow overhead light shone on every line of his face. “We figured it out. The Great Plan. Someone wanted to jump start the Apocalypse. They were done with this useless, never ending existence. I can’t say I blame them.”

Cas sighed, “You were innocent. I petitioned to keep you in Heaven, where we could keep an eye on you at all times and prevent anything like what has come about now. I was outvoted. I left Heaven before you were expelled.”

Cas turned eyes on Dean. “You and Sam are both abominations. You were not made by God. Your purpose was malicious from the beginning. We are not kin.”

Dean chewed on the new information. “Well okay then,” he turned his back and walked out of the room. The door clanged shut behind him.

Dean trudged up the stairs. Bobby and Sam sat at the kitchen table when Dean opened the basement door. 

“Well? What’d he say?” Sam asked. 

Dean and Bobby shared a glance. Dean wondered suddenly what Cas had said to convince Bobby to take him in. 

“It doesn’t matter. He’s dead to me,” Dean said. He turned and went up to his old room. Sam’s chair scraped the floor, but Bobby’s soft murmur stopped him from following Dean. 

Dean’s room was exactly as he left it. Little league trophies on the dresser. A fading poster of Ginger from Gilligan’s Island over the bed. A sawed-off shotgun mounted on the wall. 

Dean fell face first onto the blue bedspread. He was more exhausted than he ever remembered being as an angel. 

Dean woke in the middle of the night. He thought he’d heard someone say his name. Dean rolled over and tried going back to sleep. A buzz in his head pestered at him, poking him awake. Dean sat up. He closed his eyes and focused on the feeling. 

“Dean,” a quiet voice filled his head. It sounded like Cas. “Dean, I don’t know if this will work. Come downstairs. Dean. Dean, I need to talk to you.”

“Screw off,” Dean shoved back through the link. Cas did not falter in his litany. 

Dean groaned and threw aside his covers. He padded quietly downstairs. The whole trip down to the basement Cas’ voice harassed him. “Dean. Dean. Dean.”

“What?” Dean threw open the hatch. The three-inch opening revealed the lamps on the desk burning bright. Cas sat cross-legged on the bed. With his bedhead and ragged pajama pants he looked like a hippie guru. 

Cas startled at Dean’s voice. “Hello, Dean.”

“What do you want?” Dean ground out.

Cas hopped up and came to the door. “Come inside. We must speak.”

“It’s the middle of the night,” Dean rubbed at his eyes. “I don’t feel like having a slumber party right now.”

“This is important,” Cas insisted. “It’s about Sam.”

Dean spun the lock and let himself into the room. Heat permeated the room. 

“Why’s it so warm?”

Castiel ignored the comment. “How much blood has Sam drunk?”

“I’m not talking to you about this,” Dean warned. 

“When was the last time he fed?”

“He’s not an animal.”

Cas plowed on, “What are his other symptoms?”

“Stop!” Dean shouted. “You made very clear that you don’t care. So just stop.”

Cas was silent. He watched Dean like a kicked puppy. “I care. Perhaps not in a way you can understand. But I care about you and Sam. You are both integral to the  
mechanism of the universe.”

“Gee thanks,” Dean sassed. “Can I go now?”

“No,” Cas swept back to the cot and perched on the edge of the mattress. “I need details. What is Sam’s condition?”

“Why? Can you mojo him a cure?” Dean came to stand in front of Cas. 

Cas tipped his head back to meet Dean’s gaze. A feverish glaze glassed Cas’ eyes. Dean noticed for the first time that Cas was shivering in his T-shirt. Goosebumps prickled over Cas’ arms. 

“Hey, you okay?” Dean reached for Cas’ elbow. The angel yanked his arm away and propelled himself to his feet in the same motion. 

He danced out of Dean’s reach. “I’m fine, Dean. Tell me about Sam.”

“Sam is- Sam is fine.” Dean sighed. “Most of the time. He eats like crazy. Sleeps all the time. But he gets headaches now.”

“Does he get sick?” Cas interrupted. 

“Twice now,” Dean nodded. “Smelling demon blood makes him nauseous. And he fainted. Before I-,” Dean couldn’t bring himself to say “Before I fed him demon blood without his consent.”

“How is he coping with being human?” Cas pressed on.

Dean shrugged, “Fine, I guess. It’s all new to us. I mean, we used to sleep a couple hours every few days as angels just for kicks, but he sleeps solid every night now. I don’t know how we’re going to keep hunting.”

“Sleep,” Cas mumbled. “Yes, that is essential to humans, isn’t it?”

“What’s this about?” Dean finally asked. 

Cas wobbled. He caught himself on the edge of the cot. 

Alarmed, Dean grabbed his elbow. Cas’ skin burned. Cas caught Dean’s eye. Sweat gathered at Cas’ temples. 

“Hey, are you sick?” Dean asked before the question caught up with his brain. Angels don’t get sick.

“I may be experiencing some form of illness brought about by recent events,” Cas assessed.

“Which means what?” Dean helped Cas lower himself to the cot’s mattress. 

Cas’ shoulders dropped. “You asked me once about the deal I made with Crowley.”

Dean blinked, “Yeah?”

Cas mumbled to the ground, “Crowley gave me directions through Hell and promised Sam’s safe return in trade for my grace.”

Dean’s chest tightened. “Why would you do that?”

“Because despite all evidence to the contrary, I believed you would be able to stop the Apocalypse. But not without Sam.”

Dean’s mind raced. He remembered the sigils Crowley had carved into the shack’s floor. Realisation hit Dean like a tsunami. “Crowley turned you human.”

“Yes,” Cas levelled his blue stare on Dean.

“Will you…” Dean couldn’t say it.

“Age and die? I expect so,” Cas sighed.

“No,” Dean shook his head. “That’s not fair. We’ll get your grace back, Cas, there has to be some way-,”

“Dean,” Cas interrupted. “It was my choice. I wronged you and Sam all those years ago. Perhaps this will make up for it.”

“Cas,” Dean placed his hands on his knees to stop their shaking. He couldn’t do anything about the wobble in his voice. “What am I supposed to say to that? I never wanted you to hurt yourself for us. Hell, we need your angel mojo to get through this.”

“No,” Cas said firmly. “You have your own powers. You don’t need mine.”

Dean ran a hand through his hair. “Fat lot of good I am. I have no idea how to use any of my grace.”

“I’ll teach you,” Cas said quietly. Dean looked at him. Cas gave him a lopsided smile paired with feverish eyes. “You can teach me about humans in return.”

Dean patted him gently on the shoulder. “Sure, buddy. It’s a deal.”


	28. In Sickness and In Health

“Cas is sick,” Dean told Sam and Bobby when they came down for breakfast. The sun spread over the horizon through the window. Dean scrambled eggs in a pan. 

“Why do you say that?” Bobby asked. He filled up his coffee mug and sat at the table.

“Maybe the fever and shaking,” Dean snarked.

Sam startled, “Angels can get sick?”

Dean turned from the stove and scooped eggs onto Sam’s plate. “He’s not an angel anymore.”

Sam dropped his fork. It clattered onto the floor. Bobby paused with his coffee half to his lips. 

“Balls,” Bobby cursed, “I haven’t even fed him once since he got here.” Bobby jumped up and elbowed passed Dean to the fridge. 

“I don’t know if he’ll keep anything down,” Dean warned. 

“I don’t give a rat’s tail if he does. He has to eat,” Bobby piled a bottle of water, cheese, bread, peanut butter, lettuce, an apple, and an orange into his arms. “He hasn’t had anything in three days.”

Bobby hustled to the basement door. He met with difficulty turning the doorknob. Sam got up to help. Bobby struggled to balance the apple wobbling on the top of his food mountain. Sam scooped up the apple and twisted the doorknob.

“Has he slept?” Bobby demanded with one foot on the top step. 

“I don’t know,” Dean admitted. 

Bobby nodded and descended with Sam hot on his heels. 

Dean opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out an empty bucket. It didn’t hurt to be prepared. He followed down the stairs. 

Cas sat helplessly in the midst of the feast Bobby laid out before him. His fingers twitched on the cot. 

“Give him some space,” Dean suggested. Sam backed off into the corner of the room. 

Dean snatched up the water bottle and offered it to Cas. “Start with that. Go slow.”

Cas accepted the water with a grateful smile. Dean left him to Bobby’s care and went over to Sam.

“How did this happen?” Sam whispered.

Dean sighed and leaned back against the wall, “He made a deal with a devil. His grace for our safety.” A half lie felt better than the truth right now. Sam remained  
guilty enough about Hell. 

“We have to help him,” Sam said. Dean glanced at him. Sam’s jaw set and his eyes fixed on Cas’ hunched figure. 

“We’ll do what we can,” Dean clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder. He turned to watch Cas. Resentment still twinged in his gut to look at the ex-angel. Now that he knew Cas never got his prayers and couldn’t have helped anyways, it changed how he saw the events. But the residual anger remained difficult to navigate. 

As expected, Cas didn’t keep any food down. Sam rubbed his shoulders when Cas had finished puking his guts out. He made Cas drink and helped the not-angel lay out on the cot. 

“Feeling maternal?” Dean joked as he and Sam left Cas alone to sleep.

“Shut up,” Sam’s shoulders hunched up around his ears. 

***

After dark, Dean waited until Sam slept. Then he crept downstairs to the living room. Bobby’s library of books stacked to the ceiling cast pillars of shadow over the floorboards. Bobby’s lamp glowed from his desk in front of the dormant fireplace. He slouched over an open tome; an empty whiskey glass abandoned beside his hand.

“Bobby,” Dean said softly. 

“Yeah?” Bobby looked up. He leaned back at Dean’s furtive expression. Dean dragged over a chair and sat, the desk between them. Bobby pushed aside his book to  
give Dean his full attention.

“Sam,” Dean stopped, unsure where to start.

“Sam is adjusting,” Bobby said. “Give him time to figure out this whole human business.”

Dean nodded. “It’s not that. I didn’t tell you. It’s worse.”

Bobby frowned.

Dean struggled, biting his lip. “The demon blood is an infection. It’s killing Sam.”

Bobby drew a sharp breath. “What do we do?”

Dean ran a hand over his mouth. “There’s a way to slow the effects. Like weaning someone off drugs. But it means,” Dean cleared his throat. “It means Sam has to keep drinking demon blood.”

Dean couldn’t look at Bobby. The old hunter silently chewed his beard. The quiet festered like a cancer, turning Dean’s stomach sour.

“How exactly did you figure this out?” Bobby asked.

“Crowley.”

“The demon king?” Bobby exploded. “You’re trusting that smug bastard?”

“No,” Dean still couldn’t look Bobby in the eye. “I’m not taking his word. I saw it. Sam collapsed. He wasn’t going to make it, Bobby. And Crowley gave me the blood and I-,” Tears and guilt rushed to Dean’s throat, clogging his words.

“And you didn’t call me,” Bobby finished.

“I didn’t have time,” Dean tried. “I prayed for Cas, but-,”

“But I didn’t warrant a message.”

“It wasn’t like that, Bobby, I swear,” a single tear escaped, trailing down Dean’s cheek. He swiped at his eyes.

Bobby sighed. “So, you did it.”

“I didn’t have a choice. He was dying,” Dean took a shaky breath.

A crease appeared on Bobby’s brow, “Why hasn’t Sam said anything?”

Dean’s heart jumped, “He doesn’t know. He was out cold, Bobby. I can’t tell him. This will ruin him.”

Bobby shook his head, “You boys and your secrets.”

“I’m sorry Bobby. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Bobby grumbled, “I forgive you. But you better tell Sam. He may not be so understanding.”

Dean swallowed the lump climbing back up in his throat. “I’m going to check on Cas,” he pushed off the couch and stumbled from the room.

Dean wandered down to the basement on autopilot. He leaned his back against the door and closed his eyes. Bobby was right, Sam would never forgive him if he found out. So Dean had to make sure the demon blood remained a secret. No matter the cost. 

How had it all gotten so messed up? Dean wished he could go back to when he and Sam were just freaks; not supernatural entities embroiled in the destiny of the universe.

“Dean?” Cas’ voice rumbled through the metal. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, buddy,” Dean wiped his face before he went inside.

“How are you feeling?” Dean stepped into the silence of the panic room. Cas sat on the edge of the cot. He still appeared sweaty and pale.

“I’m not sure,” Cas admitted. “I have no gauge of how a human body should operate.”

“Right,” Dean swallowed a chuckle. 

“Are you ever going to come out of your hidey-hole?” Dean gestured to the iron door and the devil’s traps.

“Not yet,” Cas said. “Not until the angels forget about me. I helped Bobby boost the warding of this room. It should be impenetrable to angel perception.”

“Yeah, I can’t hear anything in here,” Dean agreed. 

Cas shifted uncomfortably on the cot. 

Dean sighed. “Look man, I need your help. I know you’re not feeling up to it, but we’re running out of time. Can you teach me to use my angel powers?”

Cas nodded, “I promised I would.” He rubbed a hand over his bagged eyes. “What should we start with?”

“Something useful,” Dean mused. “Something I can see.”

Cas hummed. “You always did have very little faith.”

“What did faith ever do for me?” Dean snapped. 

Cas ignored him. “Healing is a useful skill. Something I assume you’d need often as a hunter.”

Dean glanced at Cas’ hunched form. Guilt took a bite out of Dean. He should have offered to help Cas with his illness sooner. “Yeah,” Dean swallowed the sour feeling.  
“Let’s start with that.”

Dean sat beside Cas on the cot. Cas took Dean by the wrist and lifted his hand until Dean’s palm was a breath from Cas’ forehead. 

“Now concentrate. Think of a light encompassing the body you are exploring.”

“Should there be a light?” Dean asked.

“No,” Cas closed his eyes.

Dean followed suit. He felt like a padawan trying to feel the Force. He followed the metaphor and searched his own mind for the space where awareness should fill him up. 

“You’re not focussing outwards,” Cas rumbled.

Dean blinked. Cas’ eyes remained closed. 

“What am I supposed to feel?”

“Every person has a signature. Their soul is unique. The body is the cage of the soul.”

Thanks, Yoda, Dean thought to himself. 

Cas said quietly, “Your soul always smelled like a thunderstorm. Anticipation. Rain. Lightning. Bobby’s soul shines like amber. Warm and vanilla.”

“Vanilla?” Dean smirked. 

“Like old books,” Cas nodded.

“And Sam?” Dean pressed, fascinated. 

Cas frowned, but his voice remained even, “Sam’s soul changed. It was heat and fire, burning. The last time I touched him, it smoldered. Ash and smoke. Suffocating.”

Dean swallowed hard. He stood up fast.

Cas opened his eyes. “Giving up already?”

“Shut up,” Dean said without heat. He rubbed his hands together and paced the edge of the room. He came back around to Cas’ patient stare.

Dean nodded. “Let’s go again.”

Dean sat beside Cas. Cas’ eyes slid closed. Dean lifted his hand to hover over Cas’ forehead. He closed his eyes.

This time he felt a spark. Blue flashed in the dark behind his eyes. Dean chased it like an elusive butterfly. A chill, like a refreshing drink, encased him. The blue flash  
grew into a flame. Cold fire, Dean thought. Cas would be this contradictory.

Dean gasped. “Is that your soul, Cas? It’s beautiful.”

“Now pull back,” Cas instructed. “Look for the vessel. The container of the soul.”

Surrounding the light like a shell was a shape that Dean recognised as Cas. It continued to glow blue, except in one particular spot.

“You’re all dull in your chest,” Dean said softly. “Is it supposed to be like that?”

“Look closer,” Cas advised. 

Dean focussed. It felt like zooming in a camera. Suddenly he could see Cas’ ribs and lungs and organs Dean didn’t want to name right now. A cloud hovered over Cas’  
lungs. It choked his airways, gobbling at his flesh.

“That’s the illness, right?” Dean asked before he realised Cas didn’t see the same thing.

“Push it aside,” Cas said. “Imagine your mind gripping it and pull. Remove it from the body.”

It was too easy. The cloud latched into a ball and yanked out of Cas’ vessel. Dean and Cas both gasped at the sudden change. 

Dean’s eyes flew open. “I didn’t- are you okay?” He stammered.

Cas rubbed a hand over his chest, “Better than ever. Thank you, Dean.”

“That was awesome!” Dean breathed. 

Cas quirked a rare smile. The bags under his eyes remained heavy purple, but at least the fever tremors seemed to have vanished. 

Dean clapped Cas on the shoulder. “Thanks,” he stood. “Try to sleep.”

As the door clanged shut behind him, Dean heard a soft “Goodnight, Dean.”


	29. Bob Seger Makes an Appearance

“Breathe,” Cas instructed.

Dean sat on the hard metal chair beside the cot and inhaled the trapped air of the panic room. The temperature always ran so hot in here, Dean thought. He sweltered in his plaid shirt. Cas, of course, lounged comfortably in a t shirt and no socks. 

“This isn’t working,” Dean let out a frustrated sigh.

“You’re distracted,” Cas admonished. 

“I’m not learning anything about being an angel cooped up in here,” Dean snapped. “What are you learning about being human?”

“I am discovering that life is meaningless,” Cas answered in his drudging tone.

“Then let’s get out of here,” Dean suggested. “Get a cheeseburger, find a girl, do something fun!”

“There is nothing out there that would bring me pleasure,” Cas insisted.

“You want to bet?” Dean wiggled his eyebrows.

“Need I remind you that the whole of Heaven’s armies is scouring the earth for the both of us? ‘Fun’ is not worth capture or murder.” Cas snatched a book off the end of the cot and buried his nose in its pages.

“Fine,” Dean stood. “Enjoy your banishment from the world.”

Dean stomped out of the room and slammed the door behind him. 

An itch raced under his skin. Three days they’d sat on their hands doing nothing. Well, not nothing. Dean learned all sorts of angel tricks, but the exercises tended   
towards tedious meditative states. Dean wanted to move. He wanted to run. He wanted to fly. Barring spreading his wings, Dean wanted a drink.

He wandered into the living room. Sam was spread out on the couch reading.

“Yo,” Dean slapped his shoulder as he passed on the way to the door. “Let’s go.”

“Where?” Sam lowered his book.

“Out,” Dean opened the door.

Sam followed without further inquiry. 

Dean slogged down to the garage behind the house where he’d parked the Impala. Her shining chrome caught the dying sunset in a bloody glow.

Dean threw himself into the driver’s seat.

“Baby, I’ve missed you,” Dean caressed the steering wheel.

“Just marry the car, already. I’m sick of you two,” Sam teased.

“Don’t mind him, Baby, he’s just jealous.”

“Shut up and drive.” Sam smacked his shoulder.

The bar in town could boast of one thing: it had beer. Besides that, the tables clung with grit, the lights buzzed obnoxiously, and the clientele trended towards the   
sad and desperate. Dean loved it. He and Sam sat at the bar, sipping shots of bad liquor and chewing stale pretzels.

“Why do I let you drag me out to this dump?” Sam lamented. 

Dean knocked back his drink, “Come on, it’s not so bad.”

“Not so bad?” Sam jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Someone just threw up on the pool table.”

“Aw, man, I was going to hustle a couple games,” Dean complained. 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Why did you really want to get out of the house?”

“Is it not enough that I want to drink?” Dean asked.

“No, we have beer at home.”

Dean shrugged. “So, I wanted out of Bobby’s hair. So, I wanted a minute away from Cas. So, I want to feel… human.” Dean dropped his gaze to his empty glass. 

“No, you don’t,” Sam said quietly. “Trust me, you don’t.”

“Yeah?” Dean lifted his gaze in challenge.

Sam met him head on. “Yeah. You know I’ve had a sniffling nose for three days straight? It’s damn annoying. And I’m constantly tired. And hungry, I’m always hungry.”

Dean’s heart skipped at the memory of the same words coming from Sam’s mouth in that awful hotel room. How long had it been? Did Sam need more demon blood soon? Dean’s stomach rolled at the idea of going through that again. Sam’s desperate whines echoed in his skull.

“I’m sorry,” Dean mumbled.

Sam scoffed. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

“No?”

“No,” Sam said firmly. “It’s the demons’ fault and some day I’m going to hunt them all down and skin them alive. For now,” he turned on his stool. “I’m going to enjoy   
the moment.”

The moment didn’t look so appealing to Dean anymore. He turned in his seat to observe the cocktail rush. A group of women had just entered, drawing the majority of the male gaze in the room. The ladies tittered and flocked to the opposite side of the bar from Dean. They ordered from a young blonde bartender.

“Hey,” Dean nudged Sam. “Over there.”

Sam glanced over. He wrinkled his nose. “Really? You want to fish for girls from a bachelorette party?”

“Not them, the bartender,” Dean said. The woman had her back to them, but something about her straight shoulders and confident bearing rang a bell in Dean’s head.

The woman spun. Dean sat up straight.

“Jo?”

Sam choked on his drink. 

Jo Harvell glanced over at the noise. Her eyes met Dean’s. She froze. 

Sam waved shyly. Jo stood stock still for a moment. She blinked and unfroze, making her way towards them. 

“Hi Jo,” Sam said brightly.

“Sam,” Jo nodded. She looked at Dean. 

“You’re looking good,” he said.

“Dean Winchester,” Jo leaned on the bar. “Last time I saw you I tried to kiss you and you convulsed on the ground. Kinda hurt a girl’s feelings.”

Dean searched the filing cabinets in his brain for a box labelled “witty retorts”. He rifled around, slamming drawers, and came up empty. He settled for a dismayed shrug. 

“So?” Jo glanced between the boys. “What’s going on? Are you on a hunt?”

“Just drinking,” Sam insisted. 

A disappointed frown crossed Jo’s face. “Are you sure? There’s been all kinds of omens lately.” 

“Omens?” Sam asked the same time that Dean said, “What do you know about omens?”

Jo tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I always knew you were monster hunters. I listened to Bobby and Mom talking when we were kids. After you two left, I starting doing research. Got in touch with some people. Learned everything I could.”

She grinned at their stricken expressions. “You don’t think I actually work as a bartender, do you? This is just a front. I contact other hunters here.”

“Does that mean there’s no chance you can make me a banana daiquiri?” Dean quipped. 

“Not a snowball’s in Hell.”

Dean grinned. “I missed you, Jo.”

She gave him a complicated smile. “Me too.” She turned back to Sam. “So? What’s happening? Why are the occult crawling all over Kansas?”

Sam exchanged a look with Dean. He shrugged. 

“They’re looking for something.”

“I gathered that, thanks,” Jo grumbled. “But what?”

“Us,” Dean said. 

Jo’s expression fell. “What have you boys done?”

“Jo,” Sam interrupted. He reached across the bar towards her hand. He stopped just short of touching her skin. “It’s nice to see you, but this isn’t something you should be involved in.”

Jo’s face hardened. “Fine,” she spun in a wave of blonde hair. “Have a good life, boys.”

Sam knocked back his drink while Dean stared in bewilderment.

“Let’s go,” Sam tugged at Dean’s sleeve. Dean followed obediently out the door. 

“What was that?” Dean asked as they crossed the parking lot.

“What?” Sam lifted his eyebrows.

“That,” Dean gestured back at the bar. “You blew Jo off. We could have used her-,”

“No,” Sam snapped.

“Yes,” Dean argued. “We’re in an all hands on deck kind of situation unless you haven’t noticed.”

Sam twisted to face Dean. “Do you really want to pull Jo into this mess? She should be as far away from us as possible.”

“She’s not a little girl anymore-,”

“She is!” Sam exploded. Dean jumped.

“She is a just a girl because she’s human. She’s fragile. We have to protect her, Dean. And that means staying away from her.”

Dean blinked. “What’s going on with you?” He said quietly. “You’ve been on edge all night.”

Sam blew out a frustrated sigh. “Maybe I’m just tired of being mortal. Do you even think about the fact that I’m not angel anymore?”

A million responses ran through Dean’s head. None of them were satisfactory. All of them boiled down to: I’m sorry.

Sam took Dean’s silence as answer. He grunted and stalked over to the Impala. The passenger door slammed while Dean stood frozen in the parking lot. 

“I’m too sober for this,” Dean mumbled. He walked up to Sam’s side of the car and knocked on the window. Sam rolled it down.

“What?” Sam snapped.

Dean tossed the keys through the window. He turned and walked back to the bar, ignoring Sam’s protests.

The bell above the bar door was lost in the chorus of a Bob Seger song. Dean deliberated for a long minute. The dance floor had opened up, filling with older couples   
swaying to Seger’s croon. The low light cast a romantic glow over them and Dean felt a pang of something like longing. 

Humans had it so easy, didn’t they? No expectations, just do the best they can. Try not to ruin their kids’ lives. Make an effort to stay in love. If they fail, whatever. The planet doesn’t burn. 

Somehow Dean had gravitated back to the bar stool he’d been parked at earlier.

“Another round?” Jo appeared with a bottle of scotch.

“No, I’m good,” Dean answered absently. 

What exactly did Dean have to look forward to? He either gave in to Heaven’s demands and everything ended, or he spent eternity running away from the only destiny he’d ever had prescribed to him.

“You know what?” Dean said. Jo turned. “I’ll have whiskey, neat. And keep ‘em coming.”

“Honey,” Jo poured out a shot. “You’ve got the look.”

“What look?” Dean tossed back the drink. It burned pleasantly all the way down.

“The look that says you’re about to drink yourself into an early grave if that’s what it takes to avoid your problems.”

Dean tapped the edge of his glass. “There isn’t a bottle big enough to drown my problems, sweetheart.”

“Want to talk about it instead?” Jo poured another round.

“No.” Dean drank.

Jo watched him carefully as she measured out the next drink. She waited until he lifted the glass to say, “How’d you get mixed up with angels?”

Dean dropped the glass. Whiskey spilled over the edge of the bar, splattering on his shirt. Jo had a cloth mopping up the mess before it dripped on the floor.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean asked as he wiped at his shirt.

Jo shrugged. “People talk. And I might have been young, but I know what I saw as a kid.”

Dean leaned across the bar and hissed, “We can’t talk here.”

Jo nodded. She untied her apron and tossed it over her shoulder. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Now?” Dean stared in puzzlement. Everything moved too fast. Maybe he’d had a few too many drinks after all. 

“Now or never,” Jo came around the bar and hooked her arm through Dean’s. He let her lead him out the back door, too befuddled to argue.

She pulled him outside into the alley and leaned against the bricks beside the trash cans.

“Classy,” Dean grinned. The neighboring building was close enough that it’s back door light cast a puddle of yellow over Dean and Jo. 

He leaned against the brick next to her. “Are you going to kiss me or not, ‘cause I’m getting some weird signals.”

Jo grimaced, “I thought we established that fainting and then not talking to me for six years was a turn off.”

“Touché,” Dean nodded. He tipped his head back to look up at the strip of sky visible between the buildings.

“Do you remember when I broke my ankle?” Jo asked softly.

“Yeah. Sam fixed it.”

“You guys were always doing weird stuff like that. Mom said Bobby called you ETs.”

“Aliens?” A laugh exploded from Dean’s chest. “I wish. That’d be easier.”

“Does Sam still do that? He always had a big heart.”

“Sam’s-,” Dean swallowed hard. “Sam is human now.”

Jo breathed a curse. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m going to outlive him. He’s going to die, Jo,” Dean whispered. He hadn’t let himself think about it, except in the dead of night. 

“So, fix him,” Jo said. Plain and simple. Dean quirked a sad smile. Jo’d always been so pragmatic. She thought in straight lines. 

“It’s not that easy.”

“You’ll find a way,” she said confidently. “You’d never give up on him.”

“I don’t even care that he can’t do all that angel stuff anymore,” Dean admitted. “It’s losing him that scares me. I’d trade places with him in an instant. I’d trade my   
grace for him in a heartbeat.” The force of his emotion left Dean breathless.

“You’re a good brother,” Jo said quietly.

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for that kid,” Dean said savagely. He ran a hand over tired eyes. 

“I’ve got to go, Jo. Thank you.”

“Wait,” Jo grabbed Dean’s hand and pressed a piece of paper into his palm. “My number. Call me if you need to talk again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was slow, but I promise the big stuff is coming


	30. Livin' on a Prayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 30! Woohoo! Never thought I'd get here. Thanks to everyone who reads, comments, and sends kudos. You're all my heroes.

Sam collapsed into his chair at the breakfast table. Dean placed a mug of coffee and a plate of bacon in front of him.

Sam laid his head down on the worn wood.

Dean looked up from his own plate. “You okay?”

“No,” Sam said into the wood. “Head hurts.”

Dean’s pulse spiked. “Eat something,” he encouraged.

Sam whined. “Nauseous.” 

“Go back to bed,” Dean suggested. “I’ll bring you soup or toast later.”

Sam didn’t argue. That scared Dean more than anything. Sam slumped back up the stairs with Dean’s eyes glued on his back. 

As soon as Sam’s door snapped shut Dean scrambled into the living room. Bobby sat at his desk, reading. 

“Sam’s not doing good.”

“What else is new?” Bobby grunted. He slid another book inside the tome to mark his place.

“No, I mean he’s not doing good,” Dean emphasised. 

“Hell, you can’t be serious?” Bobby tugged his beard. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” Dean admitted. “We knew he’d get bad again. How long do I wait before-,”

“Before you go get him a demon to drink?” Bobby grumbled. 

Dean studied the red and gold pattern on the rug. “I don’t want to, Bobby. What choice do I have?”

‘What are you going to tell him?”

“Nothing.” The word came out before Dean gave it thought.

Bobby gave him a disapproving look. 

Dean held his ground. “I won’t tell him. I can’t.”

The plan was simple. Find a demon. Kill it. Drain it. Slip some blood into Sam’s food or drink.

“I don’t like it,” Bobby said for the millionth time.

“Me neither,” Dean answered for the hundred thousandth time. 

He climbed the stairs to Sam’s room with a tray of toast and chicken soup. The door creaked as he opened it.

Sam rolled over in bed to look at Dean through bleary eyes.

“Hey man,” Dean put the tray on the nightstand. “Bobby and I have got to go into town for a quick supply run. You going to be okay for a couple hours?”

Sam nodded. “Just want to sleep.”

“Okay,” Dean gave him a small smile. The fever spots on Sam’s cheeks worried him. He was progressing faster than last time. Dean and Bobby would have to hurry.

“Stay hydrated,” Dean ruffled Sam’s hair and left him.

Bobby stood by the door with a shotgun and a duffle bag of supplies over his shoulder. “I don’t like this.”

“Keep saying that, maybe it’ll change my mind,” Dean growled.

The drive to the crossroads was tense. Dean’s knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. He chose a place where two gravel roads intersected. Yellow yarrow flowers waved in the breeze. No other life stirred on the old farm roads.

“We should have waited until dark,” Bobby complained.

“We don’t have time,” Dean reminded him. “Sam needs this.”

Dean leaned against the car as he filled the matchbox with grave dirt, a cat’s skull, and his DMV photo. Bobby roved over the gravel, arranging the devil’s trap in the dirt. 

Dean knelt in the center of the crossroads and dug a shallow hole. The box dropped in and he covered it like a tiny coffin. 

Dean brushed his hands off on his jeans as he squinted left and right. No demon appeared.

“Do you think it worked?” Dean asked.

“I’d say so, handsome,” a voice startled Dean. 

He spun around. A tall thin man with dark hair waved. His red eyes widened when he locked gazes with Dean.

“An angel? I don’t do business with wing-nuts, love.”

“Good, ‘cause I’m not looking to trade,” Dean growled. “I want info.”

The demon scuttled closer, his long limbs moving like a spider. “Why would I tell an angel anything?”

“Well, if you don’t…” Dean trailed off as he pulled the demon blade from his pocket.

The demon sniffed in derision. “Good luck with that. I’ll be seeing you, gents,” he tipped his head to Bobby and threw his arms wide. Nothing happened. 

“Um,” the demon coughed. 

Dean grinned. Bobby nudged the edge of a stone by his toe. The demon followed his gaze and let out a growl. Bobby had set up a devil’s trap using the gravel from   
the side of the road. The demon stood at the edge, firmly inside the trap. 

“Get the car,” Bobby said coldly, covering Dean’s retreat with a loaded shotgun.

Dean hurried to the Impala and backed it up until the rear tires had edged over the line of stones. 

He popped the trunk. 

“What are you doing?” An edge of panic had crept into the demon’s voice.

“Well, we’re not going to kill you here,” Bobby said. “In broad daylight? Anybody might see.”

“Kill me?” The demon squeaked. “You said you wanted information!”

Dean shrugged. “We lied,” he rushed the demon, tackling it and shoving it into the trunk. The lid snapped shut on the demon’s shout. 

Dean let out a huff as he settled behind the wheel. “We did it.”

“We’re not done yet,” Bobby warned from the passenger seat. “Drive.”

Dean did. The road spun away under the tires. The tension this time was different. It was laced with anticipation and hope. The hard part was over.

Flashing red and blue lights suddenly filled the rear-view mirror. Dean looked up to see a black and white police cruiser.

“Balls,” Bobby cursed. 

Dean pulled over as carefully as he could onto the shoulder of the road. 

He rolled down his window as the officer approached. The police woman leaned over and peered inside the Impala with a bored expression. Dean flashed her a smile. 

“What’s up, officer?”

“You’ve got a broken tail light,” she said. Her tone indicated she’d rather be anywhere than here.

“Really?” Dean twisted as if he could see the light through the car.

“Ma’am, we live just down the road at Singer Salvage,” Bobby said. “If you’d let us go, I’ll fix it in the next ten minutes.”

The officer chewed on this as she examined their IDs and paperwork. “Alright,” she decided at last. “But I’ll escort you.”

“Yes ma’am,” Bobby nodded.

She returned to her vehicle, switching off the red and blue lights.

“Crap. Crap. Crap.” Dean hit the steering wheel. 

“Don’t panic,” Bobby advised.

“Why not? I’ve got a demon in my trunk,” Dean snapped. “You want to explain that to Officer Sunshine?”

They drove slowly. The police officer flashed her lights and abandoned them at the driveway. 

Bobby let out a sigh of relief. Dean didn’t share his enthusiasm.

“We weren’t going to bring it home,” Dean reminded Bobby.

“Too late for that now,” Bobby said.

Dean nosed the car into the garage behind the house. Bobby got out and placed the shotguns and duffle on the cluttered workbench. He rifled through the bag and came back with what looked like a small cattle brand. The end was shaped into a round devil’s trap. 

Bobby and Dean locked eyes. Bobby nodded.

Dean popped the trunk. The demon cowered inside. 

“Hold still,” Bobby grabbed its wrist and stamped the brand into its flesh. The demon shrieked, thrashing in Bobby’s hold. He released it at last. A miniature devil’s trap stood in scorched red against its skin. 

“No getting away now,” Bobby smirked.

Dean hauled the demon out of the trunk. 

“Please,” it collapsed onto the ground. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“Not interested,” Dean raised the knife.

The demon sprang up, swinging a fist. It took Bobby by surprise, knocking him into Dean. Dean yelped, twisting to avoid impaling Bobby on the knife.

The demon ran, scuttling from the garage. Dean and Bobby gave chase. Dean paused long enough to snatch up the shotguns from the work bench. He tossed one to   
Bobby as they raced over the gravel. 

The demon skittered up the porch and into the house. Dean’s blood chilled.

“Sam!”

He and Bobby dashed into the house. The screen door slammed behind them. The demon had vanished. 

“Split up,” Bobby advised. He headed off into the living room. 

The basement door creaked. Dean hefted the shotgun. His blood pumped in his ears. He turned the doorknob. Nothing sprang out at him. Dean steeled himself and   
descended the stairs. 

Darkness clung to the stairwell like cobwebs. Every footfall on the stairs sounded like a cannon shot. Dean’s boots hit the basement floor. 

A glow of light came from the end of the basement. The door of the panic room hung open. Dean’s heart seized. He rushed over, stepping into the room.

“Cas, you okay?” Dean hissed.

“Behind you,” Cas warned.

Dean spun. The demon slid out of the shadow of the stairs.

“You keep a lovely pantry here, darlings,” the demon crooned. He held up a jar of something viscous. 

Cas sucked in a breath. “Dean, move!”

Dean threw himself behind the iron door. Glass smashed over the threshold where he’d been standing. Thick oil oozed over the floor. 

“Oops,” the demon grinned. He lifted his hand.

Cas grabbed Dean’s shoulders and yanked him back. Dean stumbled and fell, taking Cas down with him. The shotgun dropped from his grip and skittered away.

The demon snapped his fingers. The oil ignited. Flames licked around the door frame, filling the room with ozone. 

“Holy oil,” the demon laughed. “So helpful. I’ll make sure to thank your surrogate father for that.” 

The demon waved a hand. The door swung shut and the lock clanged in place.


	31. Playtime

Dean slammed a fist against the panic room door. It rattled on its hinges, but it didn’t budge. 

“Cas, come here and help me.”

“You can’t open that, Dean,” Cas said.

Dean whirled on him. Cas remained sitting on the floor, his bare feet curled underneath him.

“Sam and Bobby are up there with that monster,” Dean ground out between his teeth. “Get off your butt and help me.”

“I can’t,” Cas said simply. “I don’t have the strength to open the door myself and you’ll be consumed by the holy fire if you manage to unlock it.”

Dean’s heart stuttered. The thought of Sam, asleep in his bed while that thing crept up on him, boiled Dean’s blood. He threw a useless fist at the door.

“It’s an impossible situation,” Cas sighed.

Dean paced the room in a frantic circuit. It rankled, having the strength to open the door, but unable to withstand the flames. Two humans could pry the lock open,   
maybe. He growled at their predicament. If only Dean wasn’t an angel, he could be upstairs already, gutting that filthy demon. 

“Stop wasting your energy,” Cas snapped. “We can’t escape.”

“From here, maybe,” Dean said. He dug into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He dialled.

He prayed to anyone listening that the panic room had service.

“Jo? Listen, I need help. How close are you to Bobby’s? Ok. You said you’re a hunter. How good are you?”

Dean held the phone away from his ear. The screech followed through the speaker.

“It wasn’t an insult Jo. There’s a demon here and I’m trapped in the basement.” 

He listened for a minute. “Thanks Jo. Hurry.” Dean snapped the phone shut. “Let’s hope Bobby and Sam can hold out a few minutes.”

Cas tipped his head to stare quizzically at Dean. “Jo? The Harvell girl?”

“Yeah,” Dean stuffed his phone back in his pocket. “She’s a hunter now.”

“A good one,” Cas agreed. “With ties to angels.”

Dean froze. “What?” He stuttered.

Cas rose, stretching his arms over his head. “If she arrives, she will likely alert Zachariah of your whereabouts,” Cas’ eyes flashed. “No amount of magic or trickery could undo that.”

Dean swallowed hard. “I don’t have a choice. Sam is upstairs. That demon will kill him.”

Cas nodded, his eyes softening. “I know. I also wish there was another way.”

A shot thundered overhead. Dean flinched. “Bobby’s putting up a fight.”

“Do you think he will last against a demon?”

Dean clenched his teeth. “Bobby’s crafty. He’ll hold it off until Jo gets here.”

Dean agonized while they waited. Every second Dean and Cas were trapped in here, Sam might die. Bobby might die. 

Something thumped against the door, startling Dean from his pacing. 

“Dean?” Jo’s voice reverberated through the metal. 

“Jo!” Dean raced to the door. He leaned against the cold metal. “Thank god you’re here. Is the demon still upstairs?”

The door swung open. Dean stumbled back. 

An acrid stench billowed over the threshold. On the other side of the door, Jo looked like a bat out of hell. Curls of smoke wreathed her face and the embers of the fire cast sharp shadows over her jaw. She hefted a shotgun over one shoulder and a machete in the other hand. 

“Hiya, Dean,” Jo grinned. 

Dean ducked over the smoldering remains of the holy oil, snagging Jo’s arm. “Did you see it? Is Bobby okay? Sam?”

“Slow down. I ain’t seen anything,” Jo tugged her arm free. She glanced over Dean’s shoulder. “Is your friend going to help out?”

Dean twisted to look at Cas. The ex-angel hesitated at the door. 

“He’s staying put,” Dean said darkly. 

Jo glanced between them. To her credit, she didn’t ask. 

Another shot rang out upstairs. 

Dean’s heart stopped. Dean made a grabbing motion at Jo. 

She tossed the machete to Dean. Together they moved up the basement steps. 

The door opened onto a dark house. Silence rang like a siren. 

Dean motioned towards the upper floor. Every second without seeing Sam alive and well was hell. Dean led the way through the empty living room. A hole in the wallpaper the size of a dinner plate testified that Bobby hadn’t exactly killed off the demon yet. 

They moved on. The first stair towards the bedrooms creaked under Dean’s boots. He hesitated, listening intently. Nothing moved. 

Jo followed Dean up into the hallway leading to Sam’s room. The cramped space forced Jo and Dean to walk single file. Dean’s shallow breaths reverberated back at him from the floral wallpaper. In the dark, the red swirls painted on the wall moved like snakes.

Something overhead skittered. Dean froze.

“Dammit.” 

Jo followed Dean’s gaze up, up, up. She screamed. 

The demon clung to the ceiling, upside down, hanging by its fingernails. Its face split into a grin, its neck twisted like a slinky toy. 

The demon dropped at Jo. She pulled the trigger too late. The shot went wide. Dean shoved Jo out of the way. The demon barrelled into Dean, toppling them both. Dean’s head hit the floor hard enough that he saw stars. 

“Not so tough now, are you little angel,” the demon crooned in Dean’s ear. Dean elbowed it in the face. 

Dean rolled to his feet. The demon sprang into a crouch, its limbs bent the wrong way. 

It tipped its head. “You care so much about these tiny humans. Why?”

“They’re my family,” Dean growled.

“Even the one in the cell? All locked up? Is that how you treat family?”

Jo crept up behind the demon, shotgun cocked. Dean caught her eye and lunged at the thing. In one movement, it dodged Dean and smacked Jo across the cheek. She dropped like a sack of coal.

“Jo!” Dean swung the machete. The demon bent its arm backwards, catching the flat of the blade with its elbow. Black eyes winked at Dean. It punched Dean solid in the face. His grip in the machete slipped. The demon wrenched it away. It tossed the blade over its shoulder carelessly. 

In the confines of the hallway Dean couldn’t find an angle to land a hit. The demon toyed with Dean, backing him closer and closer to the end of the hall where Sam’s room lay. Every swing that met air raised Dean’s ire higher and higher.

“C’mon, little angel,” the demon chuckled. “You can do better than that.”

Dean growled. Sweat poured down his face. His arms were tiring. He couldn’t last much longer.

“You’re like a grenade without a firing pin,” the demon snickered. “I’m going to pluck every feather out of your wings. I’m going to drink your grace right from your veins. When I finish with you, I’m going to leave you alive. Then I’m going to slit your brother’s throat in front of you.”

Dean roared, charging the demon. The demon laughed as they collided. They crashed into the wall. The demon’s laugh continued to ring in Dean’s ears. It echoed, building like the pressure of a kettle. Pounding, hammering on Dean’s skull. The dam burst.

Dean slammed his hand flush against the demon’s forehead. White light engulfed them both. Heat, hot as holy oil, flooded through Dean’s veins. The feeling surpassed rage. It reached a frequency where fear did not factor. There was only the calm knowledge of his own power and his right to execute it. The light raced through his blood. When it could not be contained, it unleashed on the demon. Dean’s vision went utterly white.

He came back to himself when the demon slumped. Crumbled ash burned where the demon’s eyes had stood only seconds before. Its body collapsed.

Dean didn’t wait for the remains to hit the floor. He rammed into the door at the end of the hall. It didn’t give.

“Get the hell out here, you sack of monkey crap!” Bobby yelled through the door. “I got enough rock salt to make you scream for mercy twice.”

“Bobby, it’s me,” Dean shouted. “Demon’s dead.”

A loud scraping noise proceeded the door’s opening. Bobby poked his head out.

“We good?” Dean asked.

Bobby backed off. Dean shoved into the room. The chest of drawers stood at an awkward angle next to the door. Sam guarded Bobby’s back with a shotgun. 

Dean sagged and ran to him. The gun clattered to the floor as Dean wrapped Sam in his arms.

“I’m good, Dean,” Sam assured him.

“Times like this I really miss our telepathy,” Dean said.

“What the hell is this?” Bobby asked from the hallway. He stood over the demon’s body.

Dean approached. The demon’s eye sockets smoked like craters. Dean said nothing.

Bobby gave him a worried look and went over to Jo. She groaned as Bobby helped her sit up. A livid bruise purpled her cheek.

Dean’s conscience squeezed. “Do you mind?” he held out a hand.

Jo nodded. Dean skimmed his fingers over her skin. The bruise faded with the warmth of his touch.

“Thanks, angel.” She smiled, but something in Dean’s stomach turned over.

“Are you good?” He asked, straightening up.

“Yeah,” Jo pulled herself to her feet.

“Good. Thanks for the assist,” Dean ground out. “We’re done.”

“What?” Jo wheeled.

“Hang on, Dean,” Sam said, coming up behind Dean.

“You’re working with angels,” Dean accused Jo.

“And you are an angel,” her brow furrowed. “Aren’t you on their side?”

“Not exactly,” Sam stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Jo, have you told them about us?”

She clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes going wide. That was all the answer Dean needed.

“We’re so screwed.”

“I’m sorry,” Jo breathed. “I didn’t know. I thought-,”

“Yeah we get it,” Dean cut her off.

“Listen, Jo,” Sam said gently. “You should get as far away from this as possible. And don’t talk to any more angels.”

“You’re just going to kick me out?” Jo demanded. She planted her hands on her hips. “I don’t think so. I’m in this now.”

“Jo-,” Sam started.

“No!” She practically stamped her foot. “I want to help.” She softened slightly. “I screwed up. Le me make it up to you.”

Sam and Dean shared a glance. Dean didn’t need telepathy to understand Sam’s puppy dog eyes. Dean sighed. “Yeah, okay.”

Jo lit up. She held back from bouncing on her toes, but it was a near thing. “What now?”

“Hang on,” Sam suddenly turned on Dean and Bobby. He crossed his arms. “I want to know how a demon got into the house?”

Dean shot a panicked glance at Bobby.

“Found it in town,” Bobby lied smoothly.

“I thought you were going for supplies?” Sam asked.

Bobby shrugged. “Couldn’t go to the grocery store with a demon in the trunk.”

Jo’s eyes flicked between Dean and Bobby, narrowing. Dean looked away.

“Why’d you bring it here?” The furrow between Sam’s eyes didn’t ease.

“How do mean?” Bobby asked.

“You could have killed it in town.”

“Where anybody could see?” Dean finally caught up to the conversation. “C’mon man. We’re professionals.”

Sam studied Dean. He felt trapped under a microscope. Dean fixed his posture and asked, “So, what now? Zach’s probably bringing angels here as we speak.”

“First things first,” Bobby grumbled. He kicked the remains of the demon. “Got to take out the trash.”

“I’ll do it,” Sam volunteered. 

“I’ll help,” Jo jumped in.

Sam nodded to Dean, “You should go ask Cas if we can do anything about strengthening the angel warding.”

Dean looked helplessly at Bobby. They still hadn’t harvested any blood from the demon. Bobby didn’t offer an alternative. Without any reasonable excuse, Dean did as he was told. 

He followed Sam and Jo down the stairs. The body of the demon thumped on every step. They dragged it out the front door while Dean headed back towards the basement. He made it to the kitchen before Bobby’s voice stopped him. 

Bobby leaned against the fridge. 

Dean checked over Bobby’s shoulder to make sure Sam was gone. “What do we do now?” He hissed. “How do we get Sam away from the body long enough to-,” his   
voice died as Bobby pulled a syringe from his pocket. 

Thick red liquid, almost black in the dim light, swirled in the needle. 

Bobby shrugged. “In all the hubbub, I managed to snag a bit.” He tossed the blood to Dean.

“Thanks,” Dean choked. He cradled the syringe in his hands, turning it this way and that. Dean slumped against the kitchen table. Now that the adrenaline had died, his body complained of aches and exhaustions. He never wanted to do this again. But how long would the vial in his hands last? Sam seemed to oscillate from dying to thriving in mere hours. How was Dean supposed to know the right time to dose him?

“When do you want to give it to him?” Bobby broke through Dean’s thoughts.

“Just- hang on.” Dean said. “You’re right, I don’t feel good about this. Let’s just keep it as a last resort, yeah?”

Bobby sighed. “Alright. But I still think you should tell Sam.”

“Tell me what?”


	32. Steaming Heap of Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's short, sorry

“Tell me what?” Sam stood in the doorway of the kitchen. Dirt smeared over his forearms and sweat clung to his forehead. 

The vial of blood in Dean’s hand vanished into his pocket before he turned around to face his brother.

Sam waited expectantly. Bobby folded his arms and gave Dean a significant stare.

Dean’s mouth opened before his brain caught up. “Tell you that I’ve been thinking of becoming human.”

“What?” Sam yelped. “You can’t be serious?”

“I thought of it in the bunker,” Dean explained. “If Sam and I are both human, then we’re useless to the god squad and the hellspawn.”

“No,” Sam argued, eyes wide as moons. “You can’t.”

“Dean, this is a big decision,” Bobby said softly. 

“This is how we stay safe!” Dean snarled. “That’s the endgame, right? All of us alive? So, a pair of wings shouldn’t be that much of a sacrifice.”

“Don’t say that,” Sam’s voice went cold and low. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“At least talk to Cas first,” Bobby advised.

“Cas is doing his Thing From the Black Lagoon routine. Hiding isn’t going to help us.”

“If you do this-,” Sam didn’t finish his sentence. He spun on his heel and stomped out. The front door slammed a moment later, rattling the dishes in the cupboard.

Bobby surveyed Dean. Under his beard his mouth set a hard line.

“What?” Dean snapped. 

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Not even a little bit,” Dean admitted. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I wasn’t planning on saying all that yet. But I’ve been thinking about how the halo patrol need my angelic powers. They can’t have their prizefight without their star player.”

“That’s an awfully big assumption to hang all your hopes on,” Bobby noted.

Dean sighed, “Then I guess I’d better ask the only member of the hell’s angels we’ve got.”

Dean trudged back down into the basement yet again. The trek was starting to feel like a descent into hell. 

Cas sat where Dean had left him, staring out into the dark from his sanctuary.

“Fat lot of help you are,” Dean spat before he could bite back the words. 

Cas leveled his even stare on Dean. “Yes, of course. I should have engaged the demon, useless as I am. I live to serve, even in death.”

“Alright, alright,” Dean leaned against the panic room’s doorframe, loathe to go back where he’d been trapped only minutes before. 

“So, you were right about Jo,” Dean said to the ground.

Cas hummed, “She told you?”

“Not in so many words, but yeah,” Dean crossed his arms. “Sam wants to know what we can do to boost our angel warding.”

Cas shook his head. “Not much. If we apply anything more, you will be expelled, along with any misfortunate angels.”

“Yeah, I’d not rather have my wings deep fried,” Dean agreed. He fidgeted with a rivet on the doorframe. “Cas, did it hurt when you lost your grace?”

Cas sighed, “Yes and no.”

Dean looked up. Cas studied his hands folded in his lap. “I don’t want to talk about it, Dean.”

Dean swallowed hard. “I got to ask, man. I’ve got a crazy idea, but you’re the only one who can tell me if it’ll work.”

Cas’ eyes lifted. The blue seared against Dean’s skin. “What kind of idiot thing are you planning to do now, Dean Winchester?”

Dean chuckled to himself, “You’re not going to like it,” he scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “I’m thinking of giving up my grace.”

Cas stood so fast Dean startled back a step. 

“Why would you want that?”

Dean frowned, “Everyone keeps acting like my grace is some kind of gift, but all it’s ever brought me is trouble. Well, guess what? I don’t want it anymore. I’d give up all of it, the flying, the powers, the angel radio, even the immortality, if it means I can keep my family safe.”

Cas stood silent. He looked lost in the vast emptiness of the panic room. All this time, and Cas had never added more than a few books to the sparse room. For the first time Dean truly saw it as a prison cell. 

Dean swallowed the wash of emotion. “Do you think it’ll get the angels off our backs?”

Cas hummed. “Perhaps. It certainly will send a message. But,” he cut his eyes at Dean. “It will leave you more vulnerable than ever.”

“We can protect ourselves better if we don’t have to worry about accidentally frying me with the other wingnuts.”

Cas shrugged.

“So,” Dean scratched his head, “How do I get rid of my grace? Do you recommend Crowley’s way?”

Cas grimaced. “No.”

“What does a demon do with angel grace?” Dean asked curiously.

Cas waved an absent hand, “I understand it’s an essential ingredient for many powerful spells.”

Dean made a face. “I hate witchcraft, man.”

Cas nodded. “Any part of an angel is rare and powerful. Feathers, for example, can be used for healing spells.”

“Ew,” Dean said. “Witches, man. Disgusting.”

“Of course, one has to be careful. Anyone ingesting divine ingredients faces the probability of death. Humans are not made to contain angelic forces.”

A thought tickled the back of Dean’s brain. “Is that kind of like demon blood? How it can kill a human?”

“Yes,” Cas nodded. “Although angel blood is ten times more potent-,”

The idea hit Dean like a tsunami and then slammed him again with a tidal wave. He shot up and dashed out of the room. 

He flew up the steps without the use of his wings. 

Bobby was chopping vegetables in the kitchen. He turned with the knife raised when Dean thundered in, panting.

“Where’s the fire?”

“I can fix Sam,” Dean panted. 

Bobby tossed the knife on the counter. “How?” 

He pulled Dean over to the kitchen table.

Dean’s brain was speeding down a mental highway, too fast for him to properly explain. “The demons tried to change Sam with demon blood. So, what if we balance it  
out?”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Angel blood,” Dean slapped the tabletop. “Sam’s an angel, really. He’s not supposed to be human. If demon blood could turn him into a demon, then angel blood-,”  
Dean could hardly finish the thought. The hope ballooning in his chest crushed his lungs. It was too much to dream for.

“You think angel blood could restore his angel mojo,” Bobby finished.

Dean nodded frantically. Demon blood might kill Sam. But angel blood… Dean’s breathing went ragged with the speed of his heart racing. Angel blood might fix him. 

Bobby leaned back in his seat. “Are you going to tell him this time?”

The comment slammed the breaks on Dean’s speeding thought train. The jarring halt gave him pause.

“Yes, I’ll tell him,” Dean decided. “He deserves to know,” 

“This time,” Bobby grumbled.

Dean deflated. “I didn’t have a choice, Bobby.”

“Are we going to play this game again? There’s always a choice.” Bobby softened. “Are you sure? Sam’s not the only one who might get hurt.”

“He’s my brother,” Dean choked. “I’d die for him.”

“Dean,” Bobby said carefully. “This is a big risk.”

“Bigger than poisoning him with demon blood?”

“You don’t know this will work,” Bobby said sensibly. “And it means-,”

“It means my plan to be human has to wait,” Dean swallowed. “I know.”


	33. Bloody Sunday

“Sam?” The back door slammed behind Dean. The pale light cast by the yard light illuminated two shadows crouched behind the garage. Dean hustled over.

Sam and Jo sat in the dirt next to a fresh grave. Jo leaned back against the corrugated garage wall. Sam sat hunched with his knees up. He chucked a pebble at the fresh mound as Dean approached.

“What do you want?” Sam groused. 

“How about world peace?” Dean winked at Jo.

Sam rolled his eyes. 

“Come inside, we got to talk,” Dean tipped his head towards the house.

“We can talk here,” Sam folded his arms on top of his knees, hiding his face in his elbow.

Dean bristled at the attitude, but he relented, stooping to sit in the dirt. He brushed dirt off on his jeans.

“How’d you like to be an angel again?”

Sam snorted. “Whatcha going to do, trade me your grace?”

“Pretty much,” Dean said.

Sam’s head shot up. 

Dean ignored him, turning towards Jo. “How about a game of strip poker later?”

“Dean!” Sam snapped.

Dean smiled widely at Jo. She glanced back and forth between the brothers. 

“Dean you can’t be serious,” Sam insisted.

“Sure, I can,” Dean grinned. “Poker’s no fun unless it’s sexy.”

“You can’t give me your grace!”

“According to Cas, I can,” Dean leaned back on his elbows. “You get your mojo back, I get the halo patrol off my back.” 

“What about you?” Jo asked, her eyes wide as dinner plates.

“I get to retire as a boring human,” Dean said. 

“No,” Sam shook his head. “You don’t know what it’s like-,”

“Tired, hungry, sick all the time,” Dean listed. “I’ll take that over the end of the planet, thanks.”

“It hurts,” Sam said quietly. “All the time. In your bones, in the joints. It wakes you up in the middle of the night. Nothing helps, Dean. Nothing. I haven’t slept in days.”

Jo made a soft noise. Dean glanced at her. Her eyes welled with tears.

“So, let’s make you better,” Dean said.

Sam glared at him, “You don’t get it. I’m dealing-,”

“Obviously not.”

“Shut up! I’m not taking your grace just so I can feel better. I’m not that selfish!” Sam threw himself to his feet and stalked aback to the house. 

Dean started to stand, but Jo snagged his sleeve. “Let him have some space,” she said. 

Dean resumed his seat, folding his legs under him. 

“So,” he tried, “You come here often?”

“Are you really going to give Sam your grace?” Jo asked. Her gaze fixed on the grave.

“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “Even if I have to force it on him.”

“He seems pretty miserable,” Jo noted. She snuffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “He reminded me of my aunt. She had chronic pain. By the end there was nothing  
anybody could do to make her comfortable. It was a blessing when she died. At least the pain was over.”

Dean didn’t say anything. He thought that any kind of life had to be better than death. Every day you still got to fight for breath was a good day. 

“What are you going to do if the angels come here?” Jo asked.

Dean’s stomach flipped. He smiled tightly. “They better not come here, or we’ll roast them all alive.”

Jo made a face. “I get that you’re not pals with angels, but aren’t they the good guys?”

Dean frowned. “No. They’re going to nuke the planet, Jo. The apocalypse is their idea of a family barbeque.”

Jo shrugged. “But it’s better than the alternative, right? At least if it’s Heaven’s plan, then all the good people get to go to paradise.”

“Or we could keep the planet spinning and no one has to die at all,” Dean snapped. He shoved to his feet. “Sorry, it’s just been a long day. Night. Whatever. I’m  
heading in.”

He offered Jo his hand. She took it and he helped her to her feet. He dropped her hand immediately, but her fingers brushed against the back of his hand. They walked inside together. 

“’Kay, goodnight,” Dean said as the front door closed softly behind them. 

Jo deflated slightly. “Good night,” she went up to the guest room Bobby had made up for her. 

Dean stood in the middle of the living room, letting the shadows close in on him. He dipped his hand into his pocket. The vial of demon blood sat tepid in his hand. He withdrew it and studied the slimy liquid. He should pour it down the drain. They had a better plan now. A tiny voice in the back of his head hissed, yeah but what if it doesn’t work? What if your blood can’t make Sam better? With a sour taste in his mouth, Dean put the vial back in his pocket. 

The stairs creaked behind Dean. He turned. Sam stood with one hand on the banister.

“Sorry, I thought you were asleep,” Sam whispered. 

Dean shrugged. “What are you doing up?”

Sam made a face. “Can’t get comfortable. I, uh, I’ve been coming down here every night to do research after everyone else is asleep.”

“Every night?” Dean asked. His throat constricted. Sam suffered all this time. How had he not seen it?

Dean crossed the room and wrapped Sam in his arms. Sam made a startled noise. His hands hesitantly patted Dean’s back. 

“What’s with the chick flick moment?” 

“Please let me give you my grace,” Dean muttered into Sam’s ear. “Please. I can’t see you hurting.”

“Dean-,”

“Just a little bit. Just to see if it’ll work,” Dean pleaded. He leaned back to look at Sam’s face. 

Sam’s eyes fixed on the carpet. A muscle jumped in his jaw. He nodded, once. “Ok. But if anything happens to you, we stop. End of story.”

“Deal,” The lie slipped between Dean’s teeth. 

***

Dean woke to the tantalizing scent of bacon. He trundled down the stairs and stopped dead. 

The living room had been converted into a medic centre. Trays of clamps and scalpels overran the coffee table. A rig of hoses and needles snaked over the couch cushions while two IV stands loomed on either side. 

Bobby poked his head through from the kitchen. “Hungry?” He wore an apron that read “Kiss my Grits”. 

“Bobby, what is this?” Dean marvelled at the chrome and gauze. 

Bobby shrugged. “I had some supplies lying around.” He spun back into the kitchen. “Come eat and we’ll talk.”

Sam and Jo already crowded around the tiny kitchen table. Bobby claimed the last chair. Dean took his plate and leaned against the fridge. Nerves turned the eggs and toast to ash in his mouth. 

“If you’re still set on this fool plan, we’re going to do it right,” Bobby said. He took a long pull of coffee. “No mucking around with draining anybody or drinking blood like a vampire.”

Dean wrinkled his nose in disgusted agreement. 

“We need some ground rules,” Sam piped up. He leveled Dean with a serious stare. “If you start feeling bad, we’re done.”

“Same goes for you,” Dean nodded.

Sam dropped his gaze to his plate and twirled his fork through the pile of crumbs. “Are you sure about this?”

Dean growled, “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

Sam nodded. “Alright, let’s do this.”

Bobby sat Sam and Dean down on the couch in the midst of the machinery. The IV stands rattled as Bobby looped hose and needles every which way. Breakfast churned in Dean’s stomach. He clenched his hands in the upholstery. Bobby approached Dean with the shining silver needle.

“We don’t have to do this,” Bobby said softly.

“Yes, we do,” Dean grit his teeth.

The needle slid under the skin in the crook of his elbow. Red immediately flooded the tubing, skating up and away. Bobby checked the flow and then ambled over to  
Sam. The procedure repeated, with opposite effects. Sam’s veins drank in Dean’s blood. They sat in silence, occasionally flexing their hands to keep the flow going. Jo stood against the opposite wall, chewing her lip.

“Do you feel anything?” Sam asked after a minute.

“I don’t think so,” Dean answered. His fingers were tingling, but he figured that was normal. “What about you?” 

Sam rolled his shoulders. “Maybe, it’s hard to tell.”

Bobby cast a worried eye between them. “How long do you want to do this?”

“Just wait a bit longer,” Dean ground out. He clenched his fists to hide the tremor in his hands. Spots flashed in the corners of his vision. His breathing went ragged.

Dean’s eyes slipped shut.

Pillars of fire sprang up into a sky raging with lightning. Green clouds howled across the horizon. Dean hovered over a dark earth, his wings buffeted this way and that. A flame of lightning struck, missing him by inches. Dean swerved and lost his balance. He rocketed down to the ground, tumbling end over end. He crashed into a field of grey grass. Spitting dirt from his mouth, Dean sat up. Obsidian gravestones clawed up from the ground. Between one headstone and the next, a figure stood with his back to Dean. Dean scrambled to his feet. The figure turned. It was unmistakably Sam. Their eyes met. Sam smiled. His eyes were black as Hell itself. 

“Dean!” Someone slapped Dean across the face. He jolted upright. 

“The hell?” Dean gasped. Bobby and Jo both crowded his vision.

“You with us?” Bobby asked, his brow knit in concern.

The dream still clung to Dean’s mind. Dean swallowed the bile that threatened the back of his throat. He nodded stiffly.

“Good,” Bobby pulled on Dean’s arm. “’Cause Sam’s not.”

“Sam?” Dean mind conjured black eyes. “Where is he?”

“Here,” Jo yanked Dean off the couch. 

Sam lay on the carpet, stiff as a board. Dean fell to his knees beside his brother, his stomach sinking. Sam’s clear brown eyes were open, but glassy. His skin had taken an ashy pallor. 

“Is he-?” Dean choked. He pressed a hand to Sam’s chest. 

“He’s alive, but just barely,” Bobby grumbled. “If you can do something, you’d better hurry.”

Dean closed his eyes and focused. The glow inside of him that he’d always associated with his grace seemed dim. Dean stretched, reaching for a connection to Sam. Amber light tangled with his own icy white glow. It warmed under his touch. As Dean pushed to see past the brightness, soft impressions brushed his mind. Cedar smoke, sparks, salted caramel melting on the tongue. 

Dean’s grip on Sam’s soul faltered. Distantly, he was aware of sweat pouring down his face. His muscles strained with the effort to stay here in the place beyond the  
physical. 

Finally, Dean shoved through to the point where he could see what needed healing. Sam’s heart thumped irregularly, overtaxed. It skipped every other beat, and then raced to catch up. Dean concentrated and pushed the white light of his grace into Sam. Sam’s heart stabilized. Under Dean’s hands Sam’s chest expanded with a shuddering breath. 

Dean pulled back. He sat back on his heels, wiping his forehead with a shaky hand. 

Sam blinked up at him. 

Sam’s face suddenly contorted into a snarl. His fist swung up and connected solidly with Dean’s nose. 

Dean toppled over, swearing and clutching his nose. Blood spurted hot between his fingers. 

Through streaming eyes Dean watched Bobby and Jo restrain a flailing Sam. 

“What the hell was that?” Dean asked thickly. 

Sam paused, his arms trapped behind him by Bobby’s iron grip. He stayed there, kneeling on the carpet and panting, eyes wild. 

“What happened?” Sam gasped.

“That’s what I want to know,” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose despite the sparks of pain behind his eyes.

“I saw the end of the world,” Sam breathed. 

Dean froze. 

“What are you talking about?” Bobby demanded. He released Sam. Jo slowly followed suit. Sam stayed where he was, staring at Dean. 

“I saw you setting fire to the oceans,” Sam said to Dean. “You joined Heaven. Everything burned. There was no stopping it.”

Dean swallowed hard. “I saw you… at the end.” He didn’t want to voice the demonic eyes Sam wore in his vision. 

“Do you think…” Sam shook his head. “It can’t be real, right?”

“Like what, a premonition?” Ice slid down Dean’s spine. “No, no way.”

Jo suddenly appeared at Dean’s side, handing him a dish towel. He took it gratefully and pressed it to his nose. 

“That was the freakiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Jo said, her voice coloured with awe. 

“Hopefully it doesn’t happen again,” Dean said.

“You’re going to try that again?” She yelped.

Dean shrugged. “Sure. Sam’s not better yet.”

Sam stood, stretching his arms over his head. “Actually, I feel… good.”

“Well, I don’t,” Dean groused. “Feel like I got hit by a truck.” 

Jo helped him to his feet. Dean wobbled. “You know what? I’m going to sit.” He made it to the couch before his knees gave out. 

Dean snuffled into the towel pressed to his face. The flow of blood had ceased. He tossed the towel into the corner. 

Bobby shuffled towards the kitchen. “I’m going to talk to Cas. Maybe he’s got some ideas.”

“I’ll go with you,” Sam bounded after him.

Dean leaned back against the cushions, letting his eyes fall shut. His head pounded. The couch dipped. Dean opened his eyes. Jo sat next to him. She held out a plate  
heaped with a slice of apple pie.

“You’re supposed to eat after giving blood.”

“You’re a miracle worker,” Dean thanked her. He took the plate. She produced her own pie and fork. They ate silently for a minute.

“How much grace are you going to give Sam?” Jo asked through a mouthful of pie.

Dean shrugged. “As much as he needs.”

“What about you?” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “Won’t you lose your angelic-ness?”

Dean swallowed. The pie stuck in his throat. “I don’t care. He’s family.”

“We do what we have to for family,” Jo agreed quietly.

“Hey,” Dean said. “I forgot to ask. How’s your mom?”

Jo’s fork clattered against her plate. “Fine. She’s fine,” Jo said quickly. Jo gave a brittle laugh. “We don’t talk much lately.”

“That’s too bad,” Dean frowned.

Jo shrugged. “She doesn’t agree with me hunting. But it’s fine,” she shrugged. “We’ll get through it.”

“Dean!” Sam’s shout startled Dean off the couch. He dropped his half-eaten pie on the coffee table and rushed to the kitchen. 

Sam stood at the back door. 

“What is it?” Dean noted Sam’s stricken face. 

Sam pointed to the sigils painted on the door frame. “Someone broke the seals. All of them. All the wardings are down.”


	34. Time to Panic Yet?

“Go to the basement, now!” Dean grabbed Jo’s arm and propelled her towards the door. “Lock yourself in the panic room. Don’t come out.”

“Wait,” Jo pulled out of his grasp. “I’m not hiding. I can help!”

“Not now,” Dean swallowed hard. “These guys don’t mess around, Jo.”

Dean glanced at Sam. “Go with her.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Sam argued. 

“Dammit, Sam,” Dean shouted. “The angels want you dead. Go! I’ll fix the warding.”

Dean ripped open the cabinet above the sink as Sam and Jo clattered down the stairs. Dean yanked out a can of black spray paint. He peered curiously at the ruined  
symbols. Someone had slashed through them with what looked like a knife. Who would do that? The demon they’d killed? When would it have had time? And why would it bother with angel sigils? 

Dread crept up Dean’s spine as he retraced the Enochian runes. 

A thunder of feet on the basement stairs interrupted him. 

“Sam, I said-,” Dean broke off as Bobby’s baseball cap came into view. 

“Go back,” Dean warned. 

“You may be an angel boy,” Bobby growled, “But I’m still your father. I’m not leaving you out here alone.”

“Bobby,” Dean choked. “I’m scared.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” Bobby clapped Dean on the shoulder. He snatched another can of spray paint from the cabinet and headed towards the front door. 

Dean refocused on the task at hand. As fast as possible, he fixed the black symbols. With every stroke of paint, his mind raced. Something still didn’t sit right about this whole thing.

A flutter of wings fanned the back of Dean’s neck.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean froze. 

Zachariah’s hand landed on Dean’s shoulder. “Time to go, boy.”

Dean snarled. He spun, shoving aside the hand. “Go to hell.” 

Dean lifted the spray can and fired. Black paint blasted over Zach’s face. The angel yelled, scrabbling at his eyes. 

Dean ducked aside and ran for the front door. He had to get to Bobby. 

A small female angel stepped into Dean’s path. Dean growled and charged, lowering his shoulder. He plowed into her, body checking her into the living room wall. A bookshelf rattled and came crashing down next to them. She bared her teeth, her button nose twisting with malice. An elbow connected with Dean’s chin. He faltered back. A second pair of rough hands trapped his arms behind him. Dean struggled. His heel connected with a shin, but the angel didn’t so much as grunt.

His captor leaned down and muttered into Dean’s ear, “Behave, and we won’t gut your stupid human pets.”

Fear stunned Dean. The tall beefy angel dragged him back to the kitchen, Dean’s boots scraping over the tiles. 

Zachariah wiped his face with a silk handkerchief. The black paint surrounding his eyes gave him a comical raccoon appearance. 

“How did you get in here?” Dean asked. He tested the grip on his arms. The angel growled in Dean’s ear.

“We had some help destroying your warding,” Zachariah grinned. He snapped his fingers.

The basement door opened. Jo emerged, her head hung low and blonde hair hiding her face. 

“Say hello to our ace in the hole.”

“No,” Dean breathed. Horror surged in his gut. “Jo, you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” she lifted her head. Tears streamed down her face.

Zachariah tsked. “Don’t judge little Jo too harshly. We gave her a deal she couldn’t resist. You for her mother’s life.”

“Ellen?” Dean fought the grip on his arms. “You bastard, what did you do to her?”

“Nothing. She’s free to go now.” Zach lifted his wrist. “Speaking of going, we’re behind schedule.”

Bobby suddenly lunged out of the living room. An angel blade flashed in his grip, aiming for Zachariah’s chest. The smaller angel dove and intercepted him. 

She spun Bobby around with the elegance of a choreographed dance. The blade twisted and sank into Bobby’s spine. 

“No!” Dean shrieked. 

Bobby crumpled, dropping to the floor. Dean screamed, wrenching against his captor. Bobby didn’t move. 

Jo sobbed in the corner; her hands clasped over her mouth.

Is he even breathing? The thought struck Dean like a punch in the gut. He tore out of the angel’s grip. His knees hit the tiled floor at Bobby’s side.

“Bobby, say something,” Dean’s hands roved over Bobby’s chest, feeling frantically for a pulse, a breath, anything. 

Dean closed his eyes. His grace surged, flowing like lightning from his fingertips into Bobby. He could feel the severed spinal column. Dean curled his grace around the bone. He imagined the nerves and bones knitting back together. 

Nothing happened.

Dean’s focus broke. His eyes slammed open. 

“Bobby?” He shook Bobby’s shoulder. The puddle of blood slowly spreading across the floor reached Dean’s knees, soaking into his jeans. 

Dean was dimly aware of Zachariah’s voice over his head. He ignored it.

Dean closed his eyes again and reached for the wound. He could see it. He could feel it. The connection between the broken nerves called out to him. Dean pushed, willing his grace to do the healing work. Tendrils of white surrounded the broken tissue, but it refused to meld together. 

Hands dug into his arms and dragged him away. Dean thrashed, yelling.

“No, please. Bobby!”

“Time to go,” Zachariah snapped his fingers.

“Bobby!” Dean's last sight was of Bobby’s splayed form, silent and still as the grave.


	35. Pain is Hereditary

Pain lanced through Dean’s skull. He lay strapped to a solid cold table. Searing light burned his retinas. He struggled, the restraints biting into his wrists and ankles.   
There was nothing but all-encompassing white light. 

A shadow eclipsed his vision.

A huge chimera of a creature rose up, towering hundreds of feet over Dean’s head. It stared at him through the eyes of a lion, while the wings of an eagle stirred up hurricane gale winds. With every beat if it’s wings, blue lightning flashed. 

The table under Dean’s body vanished. He floated in the ether, just him and the creature in the eye of a blue storm. 

“Cas?” Dean breathed.

The creature turned its lion head. Dean followed its gaze. He gasped. Far below them the earth spread out, black and charred. Through the smoke, the ground fell away into a chasm. The fissure flowed with boiling red blood. 

Sam crouched at the bank of the rushing river. He hunched over something. 

Dean’s vision swept closer. Sam sunk teeth into the throat of a black eyed demon. Blood poured down his face. 

The demon turned its head in its death throes. Bobby’s face opened black eyes and reached for Dean.

Dean screamed. The hurricane winds tore the sound from his throat. He looked away, choking on a sob.

“Dean!” Bobby cried out.

Dean forced himself to turn back.

Sam wrenched Bobby’s neck in an attempt to gain better access to his blood. The crack echoed across the endless space between them. Bobby’s eyes faded from demon black to dead white.

Dean jerked awake. He lay strapped to a solid cold table. Searing light burned his retinas. He struggled, the restraints biting into his wrists and ankles. There was nothing but all-encompassing white light. 

A shadow eclipsed his vision.

“Still with us? Zachariah’s voice asked. 

Tears stung the edges of Dean’s eyes. “What’s happening?” His voice croaked, his throat dry as sandpaper. 

“Go again,” Zachariah said.

Dean launched into a vision. He faltered through the desert, the sun scorching the back of his neck. His wings caked with sand. 

Dean looked up. The sun loomed against the sky, too close, too red. Behind it, the sky was black. Stars rained down, streaks of destruction. Far in the distance they   
threw up clouds of debris on impact with the earth. 

“This is what happens if you continue to defy us,” Zachariah’s voice came from the sand, the sun, the stars. 

“Get out of my head!” Dean roared. 

A figure swooped from the sky, black wings unfurling. 

“Cas?” Dean stumbled over the searing dunes. Dean chased black wings over golden sand. The figure stayed beyond his reach, no matter how fast Dean scrambled. 

“You can stop this,” the voice came from behind him.

Dean skidded around. Sam stood at the top of a dune, staring down on Dean. His hands dripped red blood. 

“Stop,” Dean mumbled. “This isn’t real.”

“Isn’t it?” Sam asked with Zachariah’s voice. 

Dean jerked awake. He lay strapped to a solid cold table. Searing light burned his retinas. He struggled, the restraints biting into his wrists and ankles. There was   
nothing but all-encompassing white light. 

A shadow eclipsed his vision.

“What was that?” Zachariah’s reedy voice complained. “We’re trying to break him here, not give him a vacation.”

“What’s going on?” Dean slurred.

“Go again,” Zachariah said.

“Wait-,” Dean’s plea cut off as he was tossed into another vision. 

He opened his eyes to utter darkness. Dean closed his eyes on the same inky nothing. A crash like the cymbals of God rang out. Dean clapped his hands over his ears.   
Gradually the roar coalesced into a wail.

“Why didn’t you save us?” 

“Sam?” Dean tossed his head wildly, but he couldn’t find the source of his brother’s voice. A scream ripped the air.

“How could you be so selfish?” Bobby’s voice cracked like a whip. “You could have stopped it.”

“Stopped what?” Dean pleaded with the darkness. Behind the words, keening shrieks cried out in pain. 

Jo hissed, “Were we not worth enough to you?”

Their words came hard and fast, pelting Dean from every side. 

“How could you?”

“We suffered for you!”

“You didn’t save us!”

The barrage forced Dean to his knees. He curled his arms over his head. The onslaught continued, punctuated by screams.

“You were never my son.”

“How could you?”

“Why, Dean?”

An eternity passed in the dark. The voices cried out endlessly. Pain wrapped in darkness and isolation. Dean huddled on the ground. His own screams joined the   
constant cacophony.

Dean jerked awake. He lay strapped to a solid, cold table. Searing light burned his retinas. He struggled, the restraints biting into his wrists and ankles. There was nothing but all-encompassing white light. 

A shadow eclipsed his vision.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

***

Bobby woke up. Insistent beeping led him from half-slumber to full awareness. Scratchy sheets rustled under his fingers. Hospital, his brain supplied. 

“Bobby?” 

Bobby opened his eyes. Sam sat beside his hospital bed; his hands clenched together. “Oh, thank god,” Sam dropped his head onto the bedspread.

“Where’s Dean?” Bobby rasped. 

Tears filled Sam’s eyes. He cleared his throat. “Um, he’s- he’s gone. The angels took him.”

“Balls!” Bobby cursed. He tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed. His legs-

“I can’t feel my legs,” Bobby whispered.

The tears spilled over Sam’s cheeks. “I know.”

Bobby’s head pounded. He only heard half of what Sam was saying next.

“Lucky to be alive, the doctors say your spine was permanently damaged. I’m so sorry Bobby-,”

“Can it,” Bobby swallowed hard. “We’ve got bigger things to worry about. Tell me what happened.”

Sam swiped at his eyes. “We were in the panic room. Me and Jo and Cas. And all of a sudden Jo opened the door. She just… phased out, I don’t know.” Sam shook his head. “I tried to stop her. Cas wouldn’t let me go after her. He closed the door, locked it. We stayed there forever. And then-,” Sam choked as fresh tears ran down his face. 

“Then we heard Dean scream. He was calling for you. It stopped, so sudden. Cas said it was over. He said we could go check now. And you were… Bobby I thought we lost you.” Sam buried his face in his hands. 

“Where’s Jo?” Bobby asked as he chewed on the information. 

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know. They must have taken her too.”

“Balls.” Bobby sat and stared at the beige wall. His heart raced at the thought of Dean with those bastards. And Jo… poor Jo. How was Bobby supposed to look Ellen in the face now?

The sterile hospital room door opened. Bobby expected a white coated doctor. Instead, a trench coated ex-angel shuffled in. 

“Well look at you,” Bobby whistled. “Out and about.”

Cas glanced down at himself. The lack of sweatpants and t-shirt seemed to surprise him.

Cas said, “It has become obvious to me that Heaven’s annihilation plan will go forward no matter what. In that case, I’d rather die fighting than hiding.”

“Hear, hear,” Bobby grumbled. He glanced between the two post-angelic beings in the room. “Well, what are we doing here?”

Sam rolled a wheelchair to the end of the bed. Bobby glared at the hateful thing. The metal and plastic leered at him. So, this was how he died. Chained down, trapped in a contraption. 

“Bobby,” Sam said softly. “We’ll figure something out. The chair is temporary, I promise. There’s got to be some voodoo, or a spell, or someone who can help.”

“One thing at a time, son,” Bobby interrupted Sam’s rambling. “First we stop the apocalypse.”

***

“You can stop the apocalypse. The end of everything.” The voice whispered in Dean’s ear. “You are the only one. The chosen one.”

“Chosen?” Dean slurred into the blinding light. 

“Yes, Dean. God himself chose you to lead the armies of Heaven. You are the Righteous One of Heaven.”

“Don’t want to be,” Dean whined. He was so tired. He tried closing his eyes, but the voice followed into his dreams.

“Help us, Dean Winchester. Will you help us?”

“Yes.”


	36. Deal or No Deal

The tension on the drive home from the hospital clung like molasses, cementing Bobby’s teeth together and forcing him into silence. The wheelchair folded up in the backseat leered at Bobby in the mirror. Sam pulled up on the gravel driveway as close to the front porch as possible. Bobby’s gut sank at the sight of those three little stairs leading up to the door. He’d never navigate those on his own again. Until he built a ramp, the house would be a prison, guarded by three impassable steps.

The awkward transition into the house only got worse when Bobby rolled to the foot of the stairs. An entire section of his home barred to him. Bobby’s hands shook with rage. He was going to kill that smug angel that did this to him. 

“I need the journal on my nightstand,” Bobby told Sam. 

Sam nodded. “Anything else?”

“Some damn peace and quiet.”

Sam patted Bobby’s shoulder as he passed up the stairs. 

Bobby rolled irritably to his desk. He shoved the wooden chair out of the way. It toppled over, clattering to the floor.

“Bobby?” Sam’s footsteps pounded down the stairs. He burst into the room with the journal clutched in his hand. He took in the fallen chair and Bobby’s sour expression.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” Bobby snapped. 

Sam brought over the journal and laid it on the desk. 

Cas wandered into the room. Sam exchanged a look with him.

“We need a plan,” Sam plopped himself down on the couch. Cas took the fallen chair and sat on the other side of Bobby’s desk.

Bobby flipped through the old journal. His own notes filled the margins, block letters stark against the author’s spidery scrawl. Bobby searched the pages in vain.   
There were no mentions of angels anywhere in the menagerie of beasts and monsters.

He sighed heavily. “The only thing I know of strong enough to take on an angel is another angel. Is that right, Cas?”

Cas looked up from the book he’d been leafing through. “In my experience, yes. Not even the demons can stand up to a fully powered angel.”

“So, we need an angel on our side,” Sam slumped against the desk. “Do you know anyone, Cas?”

“No,” Cas bit off shortly. “None who would help us are still living.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said softly. 

“Now what?” Bobby grumbled. “Do we put out an APB on angel radio? Start praying for help?”

“That would be supremely stupid,” Cas advised. “Prayers like that are easily intercepted.”

“This would be so much easier if either of us were still angels.” Sam said.

Cas jolted to attention. 

“What?” Bobby asked.

“I know someone who could help,” Cas said. He grimaced, as if the words tasted foul coming out. “He won’t be cooperative though.”

“Who?”

Cas turned sad blue eyes on Sam. “The demon Crowley. In order to stop Heaven, we need to make a deal with the King of Hell.”

“Are you nuts?” Bobby barked.

“Cas, why him?” Sam asked.

“He has my grace,” Cas explained. “We can get it back.”

“We can make you an angel again,” Sam breathed.

“No,” Cas quickly cut him off. “I- I can’t be angel anymore. I have too much to atone for. And besides, there are far too many angels who know me and would kill me on sight.”

Sam blinked. “I don’t get it. What’s the plan then?”

Cas leveled blue eyes on him. “You take my grace.”

***

Bobby supervised the demon trap Sam etched into the plaster of the living room ceiling. Cas rattled around the pantry, collecting the ingredients for the summoning ritual. 

“Ready?” Bobby asked. Cas emerged with a full bowl and a handful of matches he laid on the desk. He nodded to Bobby and retreated again to the kitchen. 

Sam climbed off the chair and joined Bobby beside the desk. 

Bobby lit the matches and chanted the incantation. The spell went up in flames. They waited. 

“Sam Winchester,” Crowley leaned against the kitchen doorframe. “And Bobby Singer,” he surveyed the wheelchair. “Had an accident, have we?”

“None of your business,” Bobby growled. 

“But we are gathered for business, gents?” Crowley stepped closer. Bobby resolutely did not look up to check if the demon had crossed into the trap. 

Cas darted out of the kitchen and shoved Crowley hard. The demon stumbled forwards. 

He looked over his shoulder, annoyance flickering on his face. “What was that?”

Cas lifted his eyes. Crowley followed his gaze and swore. 

“If you wanted a chat, you could have called,” Crowley looked between the three of them as Cas edged to stand beside Bobby. “Well? Why are we here?”

“You know why,” Sam growled.

“Time for a top up?” Crowley raised his eyebrows.

Sam frowned in confusion.

“Do I have to spell it out?” Crowley grumbled. “Are you jonesing for more demon blood or not?”

“No,” Sam recoiled. “I haven’t touched that stuff since Hell.”

Crowley’s head tipped quizzically to the side. He glanced between Sam, Bobby, and Cas. “Where’s the squirrely one? Dean?”

“Don’t worry about Dean,” Sam started.

“No, I do worry about Dean,” Crowley interrupted. “Because without him you seem to go off the rails. Last time I saw you, you were so strung out you didn’t know   
where you were. Now, you’re up and about, not a withdrawal symptom in sight.”

“What are you-,” 

“Sam,” Bobby snapped. “Can we get on with it?”

Sam looked at Bobby. His eyes widened and Bobby’s stomach sank. 

“Bobby, what do you know?” Sam choked.

Bobby couldn't look him in the eye.

“You were affected by the demon blood,” Cas suddenly spoke up. “After your return from Hell we discovered that demon blood has a highly addictive quality.”

Sam’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“Dean did what he thought he had to,” Cas finished.

“Which was what?” Sam rasped.

“He bought demon blood off me,” Crowley said. “I hoped he’d become a repeat customer, but then, I also wondered if he’d go right to the source.” Crowley scoffed.   
“Hunters. No loyalty.”

Sam breathed hard, his chest heaving. He leaned back against the desk. 

“Sam-,” Bobby started.

“No, shut up,” Sam ground out weakly. He clutched at his hair. “Did he do it?” Wild eyes met Bobby’s. “Did Dean give me demon blood?”

“He had to,” Bobby tried. “You were dying-,”

Sam made a high keening sound. “I’m going to be sick.”

“This is all very dramatic,” Crowley cut in. “But I’m bored. Are we done here?”

“No,” Cas snapped. He marched up to the edge of the demon trap. “We need angel grace. Now.”

“I might have a few drops I can trade-,”

“All of it,” Cas growled.

Crowley laughed. “Are you insane? Angel grace is rarer than a spotted tiger. What can you possibly need that much for?”

“We are facing down Heaven itself. In order to do that, we have to restore an angel.”

“No refunds, love. You know that,” Crowley said.

“Then let’s make a new deal,” Cas offered.

“You have nothing I want,” Crowley dismissed. 

“My soul,” Bobby piped up.

“Bobby, no-,” Sam yelped.

Bobby cut him off. “You give Sam the juice, and I’ll give you my soul.”

Crowley considered. “I can’t give Samantha any angel grace-,”

“Can’t or won’t?” Bobby barked.

“I won’t, alright? It’s too valuable,” Crowley surveyed Sam up and down. “Besides, it would take weeks for his body to adjust. No, I can give you something just as good.”

“What’s that?” Sam bit out. 

“Magic,” Crowley snapped his fingers. “Not peddling spell-work, either. Real magic, the kind Merlin and Morgana had.”

Bobby and Sam shared a dubious look. “How will it hold against an angel?”

Crowley scoffed. “This kind of power, the only limits are your imagination.”

“That’s not very specific.”

“What do you want, a bloody brochure?” Crowley huffed. “Telekinesis, telepathy, bloody pyrotechnics.”

“What’s the catch?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Power like that ain’t free,” Bobby groused.

Crowley waffled. “It draws on the user’s soul,” he admitted.

“No,” Bobby answered immediately. “Not interested.”

“How much?” Sam asked.

“Sam, no,” Bobby warned.

“You wouldn’t even notice,” Crowley explained. “Just don’t go building palaces in the sky, yeah?”

Sam glanced at Bobby. Feverish need burned in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” Bobby said slowly. “Seems like a lot in exchange for one mangy soul.”

“Robert, please,” Crowley simpered. “Your soul’s not so bad. Besides, I admit I’m giving you a bargain.”

“Why?”

“This is to fight Heaven, yes? Last time I checked, the first order of business on the apocalypse schedule was to destroy Hell and all of its demons, of which I happen   
to be. I help you, you help me.” Crowley straightened his tie. “This is my one time offer.”

Sam and Bobby locked eyes. 

Bobby nodded. “Deal.”

***

They took Dean off the cold slab of a table and marched him into a windowless grey room. The door shut and vanished. Dean took careful stock of his new   
surroundings. The room was entirely empty except for two plastic chairs.

So, they were going to wait him out. Dean scoffed. He’d done this routine on so many monsters he was a little disappointed to be on the receiving end.

Dean turned and almost jumped out of his skin. Zachariah stood in the corner where he had not been a second ago. 

“Hiya, chuckles,” Dean said. “You know as far as torture goes, this is pretty lame.”

“Torture?” Zachariah’s forehead furrowed. “Oh no, this isn’t torture.” He leaned into Dean’s space. “Believe me, if we have to resort to torture, you’ll know.”

Dean squared his shoulders and refused to back down. “We’ve done this dance before. You have my answer.”

“Hear me out,” Zach lifted his hands placating. “Management has listened to your complaints. We’ve reconsidered our negotiations and we’re prepared to make a   
different offer.”

“Not interested,” Dean growled.

“Not even for Sam?” Zach grinned at Dean’s perplexed face. “That’s right. Heaven went over our battle plans again and we realised, we don’t need Sam.” 

Zach folded his hands behind his back and paced a tight circle as he spoke. “Our goal is the eradication of Hell. The details that matter are minimal. Heaven must prevail, at all costs. So, we’re prepared to let the Abomination live, as long as we get our Commander.”

“Who do you expect me to fight, then?” Dean asked. He waved his arms listlessly. “I thought this whole thing was supposed to be a showdown, a prizefight.”

Zach gave him his salesman smile. “It was. But plans change. We adapted the narrative. Consider instead,” Zach spread his arms like a circus ringleader, “The Hordes of Hell versus the Commander of Heaven. One night only!”

“You expect me to fight all of Hell?”

“And in exchange you get your brother and your foster father.”

In Dean’s mind’s eye Bobby lay on the kitchen floor, his blood soaking into the tiles.

Zachariah circled behind Dean and whispered in his ear, “In Paradise your foster father will walk again.” 

Dean’s stomach clenched. 

“I couldn’t fix him,” Dean breathed. 

“I know,” Zach said, patting Dean’s shoulder. “Nothing can heal a wound like that. But Heaven isn’t a place of physical bodies.”

Dean nodded, dazed. “He’ll walk again.”

“He’ll do more than walk,” Zach chuckled. “He’ll be young again. All the veracity of life at his fingertips.”

Dean shrugged Zach’s hand aside as he spun to face the angel. “I want Cas’ life guaranteed too.”

“No can do,” Zach dismissed. “Rebels have to be made examples of.”

“Cas, or no deal,” Dean demanded.

Zach sighed. “Can you see this from my point of view? How does it look, if the first act of the new Order is to pardon a criminal? An anarchist? A traitor?”

Dean shook his head. “I don’t care.”

Zach breathed hard through his nose. He stared Dean down, testing his resolve. “Fine,” Zach said at last. “One pardon for the rebel scum.”

Dean stuck out his hand, “Then you’ve got a deal.”


	37. Smoking Gun

The tree at the end of the driveway smoldered and flamed. 

Cas cocked his head to one side, “A little to the left, I think.”

The target balancing on the edge of the fence remained un-scorched, wobbling in the breeze.

Sam let out a frustrated huff. “Crowley could have left instructions.”

“You expect a demon to be helpful?” Cas raised a disbelieving eyebrow. 

Sam clenched his fists. “I have all this power inside me, but I can’t focus it.”

“Perhaps Bobby has some suggestions-,”

“No,” Sam interrupted sharply. 

Cas said, “You have to talk to him sometime, Sam.”

“Do I?” Sam growled. “He lied to me. So did you. In fact, I’m not sure why I’m even talking to you.”

“Because I can help you with your new powers.”

Sam’s fists clenched tight and glowed red hot. He let out a frustrated yell and threw the heat from his hands. It launched as a fireball at the target, shattering the metal and raining down molten yellow debris. 

“I don’t need your kind of help,” Sam’s eyes glowed with the reflection of the flames.

“Oh really?” Cas stepped into Sam’s face, forcing him to look at him. “You’d rather soak in your own self pity than accept that you are in way over your head?” Cas’ deep voice grated. “Is this what I left Heaven for?”

Sam seethed internally. He locked his jaw to keep all the scornful words from boiling out. 

Cas shook his head and walked away. 

Sam stood, shaking with rage. The audacity! His own brother had tricked him, lied to him, forced demon blood on him. Sam had a right to be angry. He had a right to hold a grudge against Bobby. Bobby who had stood by and let it happen. Who had known all along and said nothing to Sam. 

Sam glared at the smoking remains of the tree at the end of the drive. The ash black branches punctured the clear blue sky. He tipped his head back and stared up into the endless nothing. He’d always imagined Heaven as some place up above. Could Dean see him now? 

With a sigh, Sam hung his head. Cas was right. It wasn’t fair to blame Bobby or Cas. Right now, they had an apocalypse to avert. Sam put a lid on the simmering pot of his anger. But when they got Dean back, you could bet Sam was ready to throttle his brother. 

Sam trudged into the house. He wiped his feet at the back door and let the screen fall shut behind him. 

“So,” Sam jumped at Bobby’s voice. “We gonna talk now?”

Bobby sat in his wheelchair at the kitchen table. He glared over an open book. “Just ‘cause I can’t outrun you anymore doesn’t mean I can’t catch you.”

Sam scrubbed the back of his neck. “Look, Bobby-,”

“No, you look,” Bobby rolled closer. “I know you got your feelings hurt. I know Dean did wrong by you. Heaven knows I know. But we got bigger fish to fry right now. So, dry your eyes and let’s fix this before there’s no more planet to fix.”

“Okay,” Sam said.

Bobby blinked. “That’s it?”

Sam shrugged, “Yeah. I agree. Let’s figure out how to get Dean back.”

“Okay,” Bobby nodded.

***

Dean paced up and down the grey room. His body thrummed with restless energy. When were they going to start? He counted the tiles under his feet as he paced. 

One… Two… Three… Four… Five… Six, turn. 

One… Two… Three… Four… Five… Six, turn. Endless circles. 

He wanted to start. The sooner they started, the sooner it would be over. Dean would be reunited with Sam. Bobby would be whole again.

One.. Two… Three… Four… Five… Six, turn.

“Dean,” Zachariah swept into the grey room. Dean stumbled to a halt. 

“There’s been a complication,” Zach’s mouth set in a grim line.

“What? Is Sam okay?” Dean’s stomach dropped.

“Not exactly,” Zach walked to one of the featureless walls. He snapped his fingers. A window appeared, like a giant screen. Zach motioned Dean over. Dean hesitantly drew near. The screen showed a tree, smoldering into ash against a blue sky. 

“What is that?” Dean asked.

Zach sighed. “Your brother did that. It seems Sam isn’t as docile as we thought,” Zach cut his eyes at Dean. “He made a deal with a demon.”

“No,” Dean stumbled away from the screen. “No, he wouldn’t.”

“He did,” Zachariah insisted. “Look at the tree. He traded for demon blood. And you know what happens to humans who drink demon blood.”

“They become demons,” Dean choked. His eyes remained glued on the tree. His heart spiked as he recognised it. The tree stood at the end of the driveway at Bobby’s house. 

“Sam was weak,” Zach pressed, circling behind Dean. “He couldn’t handle the withdrawal. He made a deal.”

Dean shook his head so hard his ears rang. “No, we cured him. I cured him!”

Zach paused, “How?” The word fell like a gavel.

“My blood,” Dean whispered. 

“Stupid!” Dean flinched at Zach’s outburst. Zach gripped Dean’s arm hard, pulling his eyes from the burning tree at last.

“How can you continue to be so monumentally idiotic?” Zach snarled. 

The angel’s anger cut through the fog of Dean’s horror. He bared his teeth. “Let me go.”

“I thought you were finally ready, but it looks like we’re going to have start over,” Zach said cryptically. Dean heard the unfurling of wings and suddenly they were back in the room with the bright lights and the cold table. Dean struggled, yanking at the grip on his arm. 

Zach tossed Dean onto the table like he weighed nothing. Restraints snapped closed around Dean’s wrists. 

“Don’t!” Blinding light flooded Dean’s vision. He turned his head and squeezed his eyes shut. “I said I’d do it! We had a deal,” Dean yelled. 

Zach’s voice whispered in Dean’s ear with hot breath, “Unfortunately, the deal has been terminated. Your brother saw to that.”

Dean was thrown into utter blackness. Black with malice. Black with teeth. The black receded, gradually and became a pair of eyes in the dark of a less malignant shadow. Dean crouched, unable to make out any details but the pair of eyes burning holes in his soul. 

“Sam?” The recognition turned his stomach to ice. 

A smile knifed the dark. “Hello, Dean.”


	38. Brother Against Brother

The locator spell fizzled on the desktop. Curling edges of the map caught flame. The fire burned unnaturally in a circle, tightening in a loop. As the edges of the paper blackened, towns and fields crumbled to ash. The flame moved inwards, narrowing and narrowing. It slowed its progression, smoke ringing around a road marker. Then with a hiss, the flames devoured it whole.

“Balls!” Bobby cursed the smoldering pile on his desk.

Sam gave Bobby a dubious look from the couch. “This is your big plan?”

“Dean has to touch down on earth sometime,” Bobby grumbled. “When he does, we’ll know.”

Sam crossed his arms. “How many times a day are you planning to do that spell?

“I’ll do it as long as I have to until we either find him, or somebody comes up with something different.”

“Right,” Sam shoved himself to his feet. “I’m going to go work on that alternate plan, then.”

Sam walked out the front door and moved furtively to the blackened tree at the end of the drive. He glanced back at the house. The curtains in the living room were drawn. Sam pressed a palm to the charred surface of the tree. He concentrated hard, thinking of green. 

“Live, live, live,” Sam mumbled. Shoots of vines erupted from the spaces between his fingers. 

“No!” Sam cursed, yanking his hand away. 

“You didn’t want it to work?” 

Sam jumped at Cas’ voice. 

The familiar trench coat emerged from the other side of the tree. 

“I was thinking of leaves, not vines,” Sam glared at the offending mutations.

Cas stayed silent a long moment, studying Sam’s work. “I wonder if voicing your intentions helped?”

“You mean asking the tree to live?” Sam snorted. “Didn’t work, did it?”

“So be more specific,” Cas suggested.

Sam returned his attention to the black tree trunk. He put a hand on either side of the ruined branches. He closed his eyes, “Come back to life. Grow leaves. Be a living tree.” 

He felt the pull in his gut, but Sam hesitated to open his eyes. What strange abomination would have sprouted this time?

“Sam.”

Sam opened his eyes. 

The tree was perfect. Not a singe remained on the rough bark under his palm. Rich green leaves rippled in the breeze.

Sam whooped, “I did it!”

“Your only limit is your imagination,” Cas reminded him. “That’s what Crowley said.”

***

No concept of time permeated Heaven. Dean’s fuzzy head blurred the visions Zachariah showed him with endless hours in between. Dean endured worse. He knew he had. But he couldn’t remember when. Something about Zachariah’s methods felt soul stripping. Every time Zachariah pulled him off the slab, Dean wasn’t sure if he would abandon Dean to the grey room for an eternity, or send him to Uriel.

Uriel beat the crap out of Dean. There was no other way to describe it. 

Zachariah clapped a hand on Dean’s shoulder and pushed him into the vast abyss of white space Dean had begun thinking of as the training grounds. His body still ached from the last ‘lesson’.

Uriel waited high above, grey wings slashing through the air. Dean steeled himself and leaped into the clouds. He angled his sore wings for the spot Uriel where hovered. As Dean passed through a cloud, he pulled up short. Uriel had vanished. Below, the ground was perfectly white marble, almost reflective. Dean would never get used to the saturated pure pearl of everything in Heaven. He’d give anything for a single blade of green grass.

Uriel pounced, taking advantage of Dean’s distraction. His wings clipped Dean hard, sending him careening in a downward spiral.

“Defend your flank!” Uriel roared.

Dean hit the ground hard. He rolled onto his back, gasping. Uriel landed with an earth-shattering rumble.

“Get up!” Uriel growled in Dean’s face.

Hours later, Dean felt like a hellhound’s chew toy. 

Dean slammed into the unforgiving ground for the thousandth time that day. Uriel approached; his meaty fists clenched.

“Enough,” Zachariah’s voice cut through.

His dress shoes clicked across the marble as Dean pulled himself to his feet. 

“We have word on the Adversary,” Zachariah announced.

“Sam?” Dean’s head snapped up.

Zachariah grimaced. “Yes. The demon boy is growing in power. We have to strike soon, before he takes the throne of Hell.”

Dean’s head buzzed. “Sam… Sam wouldn’t…” he started. But hadn’t Sam done it already? He’d seen the visions of black eyes. Zachariah had showed Dean the burning tree on Bobby’s lawn.

“Sam is a demon now,” Zachariah reminded Dean. “He’s lost to us. To you.”

“He has to be stopped,” Dean agreed. 

“Do you have what it takes?” Zachariah demanded; his watery blue eyes boring into Dean’s.

Uriel grunted.

Defiance flared in Dean’s gut. “Yes,” he lifted his chin. “I won’t let him take the throne.”

“Good,” Zachariah nodded. “I think you’re ready.”

Zachariah draped a hand over Dean’s shoulder and pulled him away from Uriel. He led the way down a pale corridor. 

The door at the end of the hall opened. 

Dean stopped short. The slab filled the tiny room. 

“One last session,” Zachariah, assured him. “Just to make sure you’re prepared.”

Dean hesitated. The buzzing in his ears flooded his vision like tv static. “For Sam.”

Dean submitted to the will of Heaven and plunged into the final vision. 

The programming ended.

Zachariah unbuckled the restraints from Dean’s wrists. Dean didn’t move. He didn’t sit up after Zachariah released his ankles. Dried tears tracked from the corners of his eyes but Dean did not wipe them away. 

“Commander,” Zachariah said. 

Dean sat up at attention. 

“The army awaits you,” Zachariah gestured to the door. 

Dean got up and marched out, his spine rigid, eyes straight ahead.

Zachariah followed him and closed the door with a click of finality.

***

“Bobby!” Sam burst into the living room, breathing hard. His head spun with elation. He skidded to a halt, his delight vanishing instantly. He pulled up so short Cas almost ran into him.

Crowley lounged against Bobby’s desk while Bobby sat behind it with a sawed-off aimed at the demon’s head. Sam took in the scene, noting the tear in Crowley’s suit sleeve, and the untucked tie.

“Sasquatch,” Crowley bowed his head in Sam’s direction. “Would you like to tell your pet invalid that I’m here to help?”

“I’ll show you invalid,” Bobby growled, hitching the gun higher.

“We don’t have time for this,” Crowley snapped. “The halo patrol is touching down as we speak.”

“What?” Sam said.

At the same time Cas demanded, “Where?”

Crowley leaned across Bobby’s desk. Bobby pulled back in revulsion. Crowley jabbed a finger at the map spread over the desk. 

“There,” he looked up at Bobby, “You lot have got to get to Cavalry Cemetery.”

“The Hell Gate?” The gun dipped in Bobby’s grasp.

Crowley nodded, “The winged bastards are attacking Hell.”

“Now?” Sam squawked.

“My demons can’t handle it. I only just got passed them myself.” Crowley pulled a silk handkerchief from his lapel pocket and wiped his forehead. “Word is, your brother is leading them.”

Sam turned to Bobby. “We have to go. Now!”

“We don’t have a plan,” Bobby reminded him. 

“So, we wing it!” Sam threw his hands up. “I don’t care. It’s Dean. And he’s about to end the world.”

“I have a plan, maybe,” Cas stepped forward. “Or at least an idea.”

“Great, tell us on the way,” Sam spun on his heel.

“You have this well in hand,” Crowley spoke up. “Good luck and all that. Ta.” He vanished in a puff of red smoke.

“Sam,” Bobby’s voice was soft and vulnerable.

Sam’s breath hitched. He turned reluctantly. 

Bobby gestured at his own immobile legs with a sad grimace. “You got to go without me.”

“No,” Sam shook his head hard enough his ears rang. “No, I can’t do this without you.”

“I’m not saying I want you to,” Bobby argued. “But I’m less than useless like this.”

“Bobby is right,” Cas said without looking Sam in the eye.

Sam set his jaw. “No. You’re coming with.”

“Not like this,” Bobby’s voice rose.

Sam smirked, an idea suddenly occurring to him. Why had he not thought of this before? “So, let’s give you an upgrade.”

*** 

Zachariah furnished Dean in armor of Heaven. A breastplate of silver, a shirt of chainmail, a helmet with a white plume. Dean stared at himself in the mirror. An Angel of the Lord stared back. 

“It’s time,” Zachariah said. 

They left Heaven, diving through the clouds with wings spread wide. They emerged in a clear blue sky, the earth spreading below. Dean followed Zachariah over fields and towns. He stopped at last.

Dean and Zachariah hovered over Cavalry Cemetery, the beats of their wings stirring the leaves of the sparse trees. 

“There,” Zachariah pointed out the mausoleum. “The first attack will enter Hell itself through the Gate. The second wave will follow you. When the Adversary arrives, you’ll have to be ready.”  
Zachariah pressed an angel blade into Dean’s hand. “Only you can stop him, Dean.”

Dean swallowed hard. His head was spinning. Sam’s face, blinking black eyes and mouth stained red, crowded his mind. But superimposed over the image was his baby brother. Dean shook his head to clear it. “I understand.”

“Give the order.”

Dean lifted his blade. Lightning flashed to the silver knife-edge. Dean pointed the blade at the mausoleum door. The lightning leaped and crackled against the doors. They burst open. The abyss yawned beyond. Out of the blue sky, a blazing light, brighter than lightning, streamed into the Hell Gate. Thousands upon thousands of angels careened down into the depths. 

Dean watched impassively, awaiting his next move. Waiting for his brother. 

***

Sam swerved, almost crashing the Impala, as a pure radiant light suddenly lanced from the sky.

“What is that?” He asked, craning his neck. Beyond the gates of Cavalry Cemetery, the light poured down in a continual stream. 

“They’re angels,” Cas breathed. 

Bobby cursed from the passengers seat. 

Sam threw the car into gear and jumped the curb. Bobby yelled as the grill of the car met the rusted metal fence of the cemetery. The fence gave. The Impala roared up the hill and skidded to a halt in the dusty grass next to a row of headstones. 

Sam was out of the car in an instant, staring up at the display of Heaven’s Army rushing into Hell. 

He looked back down as Bobby got out of the car. Bobby placed both feet on the ground and stood, tall and imposing with a grim expression under his beard. 

The magic Sam had worked held. Sam couldn’t help the spark of relief. He didn’t know how much of his soul he’d burned to heal Bobby’s spine. But it didn’t matter. Sam would burn his whole soul if it meant Bobby could walk again. 

“I don’t like this,” Cas said, his eyes glued on the angels overhead. The force of their flight caused hurricane winds, buffeting Cas’ dark hair and sending his coat flapping.

“Stick to the plan,” Bobby shouted over the roar of the wind.

Cas retrieved a pottery jar from the backseat of the Impala. Together, the trio raced to the epicentre of the chaos. Gravestones had tumbled over and the earth cracked in places as the angels stormed Hell.

The mausoleum loomed, the doors gaping open.

Sam looked over at Cas and nodded.

Cas poured the oil from the jar in a messy circle all the way around the mausoleum. He staggered a bit under the force of the wind. Sam and Bobby guarded Cas as he poured, keeping an eye on the light streaming down from above. The angels didn’t appear to notice their presence. 

The three of them clustered together as Cas finished. 

Bobby flicked his lighter, but the wind kept putting it out. Bobby cursed.

“I got it,” Sam knelt and snapped his fingers. The holy oil surged into a wall of flame all around the mausoleum. An awful shriek of pain soared overhead as the jet of heavenly light was cut off from the tomb. Cas shuddered. 

Outside the circle, the light that poured from the sky stammered and stopped. The sudden silence jarred against Sam’s ears. A few loose strands of pulsing white drifted here and there and then vanished.

Sam held his breath. 

A pair of wings slashed against the sky and hurtled down. An angel in full armor landed a stone’s throw from the wall of fire. Through the leaping flames, Sam met the angel’s eye.

“Dean?” Sam choked. His chest felt punctured. The expression on Dean’s face behind the silver helmet was one of pure hatred.

Dean lifted his blade. “Adversary!” He challenged. “Face me!”

Sam glanced back at Bobby and Cas. “Close the Hell Gate.”

Sam stepped through the fire unharmed. He ignored Bobby’s shout of betrayal and Cas’ yell. 

“It’s just you and me, Dean,” Sam said. “Just us.”

“You are the Adversary,” Dean growled.

Sam's stomach twisted. “I’m your brother.”

Dean’s eyes flickered behind Sam to Bobby and Cas shoving fruitlessly against the stone doors of the Hell Gate. 

***

Dean’s hands shook. “Bobby? But-,” he stammered. “I thought his legs-.”

“We worked some magic,” Sam held out a hand. “Please Dean. Stop this. Come with us.”

Dean snarled. “I know what you did. You made a deal with a demon.”

Sam flinched. 

The tiny fragment of Dean that had hoped Zachariah lied to him died. 

“Demon scum,” Dean growled. 

Sam reeled as if Dean had hit him. Dean yelled and charged; his angel blade raised. 

Sam’s eyes went wide. A wild chant fell from his lips. The ground under Dean’s feet buckled. The earth split open like a wound. Before he could lose his balance, roots shot out of the soil and wrapped around his legs. More roots sprang up and caught his wrists.

“What is this?” Dean grunted, tugging at the restraints.

“I’m not a demon,” Sam said. His fists clenched at his sides. “I’m stronger than that.”

Dean slashed at the roots with his blade. The bindings dropped away. The buzzing in Dean’s head dialled so loud it blurred out his vision for a moment. He launched himself at the Adversary. 

Sam dodged, neatly sidestepping Dean’s clumsy tackle. Dean countered with a backhanded fist that Sam saw too late. Dean clipped Sam’s chin. Sam staggered back. 

“I don’t want to fight you, Dean,” he pleaded.

“One of us has to die,” Dean circled around Sam, his head swimming with visions of black eyes and blood. “Brother against brother. It is written.”

Sam’s face screwed up. “You never believed that. What happened to you and me against the world?”

“I would never work with a demon!” Dean charged. 

Sam was ready this time. He flicked his wrist and hurled a fireball at Dean. Dean ducked, too late. The flames smashed against his helmet. Fire raced over his visor.  
Dean yelled and yanked off the helmet. A flame dropped onto his breastplate. Dean flapped at it, ineffectively. Cursing, he wrestled the heavy armor off. 

He stood heaving for breath in his T shirt. He leveled his blade at Sam. “Don’t try that again.”

“Dean, stop!” Sam shouted. He crouched, ready for Dean’s next attack. “We can end it all. No more apocalypse, no more Heaven and Hell. Just drop the knife and help us!” Sam gestured back at Bobby and Cas. They shoved at the massive doors of the Hell Gate, thrusting it closed inch by precious inch. 

“You’re sealing the angels inside,” the shock knocked the breath from Dean’s lungs. “Half of Heaven’s angels are in Hell right now.”

Sam nodded vigorously. “Yes. We seal the Gates and Heaven will be too depleted to attack again. The demons will have to defend Hell, they won’t have the time to bother anyone on Earth anymore.”

“No Apocalypse,” Dean muttered, his eyes still fixed on the struggling Cas and Bobby.

“Please, Dean,” Sam held out a hand. “Help us.”

The buzzing in Dean’s head reached a skull splitting crescendo. He roared, barrelling into Sam. They toppled into the grass, wrestling and landing wild punches. Dean finally pinned Sam down. 

White hot rage flashed through Dean’s veins. He slammed his fist into Sam’s face, again and again. 

“Dean!” Bobby’s shout cut through the haze of red clouding Dean’s vision. He looked up. Bobby stood at the edge of the holy fire, staring through the flames.  
“Dean, stop.”

The rolling rage ebbed away at the sight of Bobby, standing on his own two legs. “Bobby, I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you,” Bobby said softly. “And now it’s time for you to come home, son.”

“I’m not your son!” Dean roared. “I am an angel!” He levelled his blade at Sam. “And he is the Adversary!”

“Then do it,” Sam mumbled through a mouthful of blood. 

Dean looked back down at him. 

Sam laid one hand over Dean’s bloody fist. “Me and you against the world.”

“I have to end it. It has to be me,” Dean struggled to his feet, towering over Sam. The buzzing in his head abated, leaving his mind clear at last. “I have to end it.”

Dean lifted the blade. Sam stared up at him, chest heaving. Blood dripped down Sam’s face. Dean looked into the eyes of his brother. A single tear ran down Sam’s cheek. Dean readied the blade.

He winked, “See you on the other side.”

Dean plunged the angel blade into his own chest, carving at the spot where his grace burned hot. Agony coursed through him like a lightning bolt. Everything was electric, seizing his muscles and rattling his bones. Dean ground his teeth and pressed harder. Blue light filled his vision, burning out the image of Sam’s face, twisted in a howl of horror. Dean wrenched the blade out, blood and grace spilling from his chest. Each breath raked hot coals through his ribs, so he stopped breathing. He reached for the wound and pulled. A string of glowing grace caught on his fingers. He yanked at it, tugging the light from his chest one strand at a time. At last, a ball of brightness dropped into his palm. Darkness edged his vision, encroaching on the electric light. His ears hummed. Nothing made sense. It was over. Dean told himself again, it was over. No more war. No more of anything. Just pain. And even that was fading. 

It was all over.

***

Dean woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be the last. I want to say thank you to everyone who has read this far. You guys have been awesome!


	39. One For the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I delayed posting this chapter for a long time because I wanted it to be perfect. Nothing is ever perfect, but I'm happy with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the very last chapter. Angel With a Shotgun has been almost a year of my life. Thank you to everyone who has read to the end. Thank you to everyone who has been here from the start. We've finished this journey together. Someday there may be a sequel, but for now the story is over.

Sam sat next to the cot in the panic room with his hands clenched in his lap. He kept watch over Dean’s unconscious form while memories flashed through his mind. 

Dean ripping blinding white strands of Grace from his own chest. The blood as Dean slumped over. Terror pounding in Sam’s temples as he tried to stem the flood. Dean’s eyes rolled back in his head. The drain of magic curling from Sam’s gut as he chanted over and over and over. 

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. The drive home with Dean dying in the backseat had been the worst moments of Sam’s life. Bobby hustled them all into the panic room, dumping an arsenal of hospital supplies over the floor. 

Dean hadn’t woken up once. At one heart stopping interval, Dean’s body seized, tossing him in spasmic tremors. Castiel held him down on the cot while Sam and Bobby worked. Between Bobby’s medic skills and Sam’s magic, they’d stabilized him. But neither of them could coax Dean out of his slumber. 

It took the wind right out of his sails, but Sam had re-linked his mind to Dean’s. It was a shoddy version of their angelic telepathy, and Dean had yet to react to Sam’s mental probing.

“Dean,” Sam tried again, pushing his mind against Dean’s. “I need you to wake up. I can’t do this alone.”

Nothing. Sam sighed. He stood to pace around the tight room. He avoided the corner, where an abandoned pile of bloody bandages lay. 

A groan startled Sam. He whipped around. Dean blinked up at the revolving fan. Sam rushed to his side as Dean struggled to sit up.

“Hey,” Sam pressed Dean back against the pillow. “Take it easy. We thought you were a goner.”

“Me too,” Dean panted. “So why am I still alive?”

“And why are you in my head?” Dean thought across their link.

Sam patted Dean’s shoulder. “I, um, used my magic.”

Dean’s head snapped up. “You never did explain that to me.”

Sam shrugged. “It’s an intuitive energy that feeds off my soul.”

“What?” Dean yelped aloud. “You burned your soul for my life?”

“Yes,” Sam’s eyes hardened as his voice spoke in Dean’s mind. “And I’d do it again. I almost lost you for good.”

Dean’s forehead folded in pain. “Sam,” he said aloud. “Stop, my head’s killing me.”

Sam backed off. He brought over a glass of water from the side table. Dean gulped it gratefully. 

He glanced over at Sam when he finished. “I still don’t understand how you got the magic in the first place.”

Sam shifted in his seat, resuming the conversation out loud. “It’s not my place to tell you. I’ll let Bobby explain.”

“Bobby?” Dean said bewildered. 

Dean’s stomach growled. 

Sam grinned. “C’mon.”

Sam helped Dean stand and led him upstairs. 

Bobby stood at the stove, stirring a pot on the burner. 

“Hey!” He turned as Sam and Dean entered. “Look who’s finally awake.” Bobby enveloped Dean in a hug. Dean’s face crumpled as he clung for dear life to the back of Bobby’s shirt.

“Bobby, I’m sorry-,”

“No,” Bobby interrupted. “No more apologizing. It wasn’t your fault. And besides, it’s fixed now.”

Sam made a sound in the back of his throat.

Dean’s eyes found his and asked a silent question. Sam pressed his lips tightly together. 

“Bobby,” Dean pulled back to look at his foster father. “What did you two do?”

Bobby chewed his beard. “Listen, you have to understand. We were going to lose everything, Dean-,”

“Just tell me,” Dean demanded. He swayed on the spot. Sam made an aborted gesture to help. But Bobby wrapped his hand around Dean’s arm and pulled him into a seat at the table. Bobby sat across from him and Sam took the other chair.

“I’m old,” Bobby started. He held up a hand to cut off Dean’s question. “I am old. And ten years is a long time to be promised at my age. I made a deal, Dean.”

Dean made a horrified sound. “Which demon did it? We’ll hunt him down, tear him a new one until he gives your soul back.”

Bobby shook his head. “Crowley isn’t going to be easy to find, Dean.”

Dean shook his head, “It’s not fair. We’re not just going to sit back and let some demon drag you to Hell.”

“Is Crowley even going to be able to collect?” Sam mused. “Isn’t Hell kind of a war zone now with the angels trapped inside?”

“He’ll collect,” Cas rumbled from the doorway. 

Sam spun in his chair. Dark rings hung under Cas’ eyes. He leaned heavily on the door frame as he spoke. 

“Souls are energy sources. And what Hell needs right now to win is souls. Besides, Crowley isn’t in Hell.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

“Do you honestly think the King of Hell would be caught dead inside Hell when he knew all along this war was coming?” Cas shook his head. “No. He’s on Earth, somewhere.”

“Good,” Dean growled. “So, we can find him. And once he gives up Bobby’s soul, I’m going to kill him.”

“Calm down,” Sam groused. “You just got back on your feet.”

The ruminating silence was broken by Dean’s stomach growling. 

Sam and Bobby laughed. 

“Dinner’s ready,” Bobby stood. The four of them moved in a complicated, cozy dance of weaving between each other to retrieve forks and plates and steaming bowls.

Sam marveled to himself at how normal dinner turned out. They chatted and laughed, and no one said anything about demons or the apocalypse. It was weird. It felt good. 

Sam watched Dean scarf down his second helping of pie. Even Cas nibbled a little at his plate. We’re all human now, Sam realized. We’re all the same.

“You know,” Bobby leaned back in his chair. “When I found you boys as babies, I didn’t even believe in angels. Now I got three ex angels living under my roof.”

Sam twisted his hands in his lap. “Do you regret it?” 

“Not for a second.”

End

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come chat with me on Tumblr @https://headfulloffantasies.tumblr.com/


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